There are places in this world that do not merely exist; they echo. They do not simply hold history; they haunt it. The Kigali Genocide Memorial is one such place.
In the heart of Rwanda’s capital, it stands as a graveyard and a classroom, a sanctuary and a warning.
It is a space where silence speaks louder than any sermon and where the past refuses to be buried without first being understood.
Yesterday, I stood within its solemn grounds with my wife Janet and our two children, Izzy and Penny. As a family that homeschools, we believe in learning through immersion, through presence, through truth, through the kind of education that cannot be outsourced to textbooks alone.
This visit was not a detour from our curriculum; it was the curriculum. And yet, even with our commitment to experiential learning, nothing in our pedagogical philosophy prepared us for the emotional architecture of that space.
In 1994, I was 13 years old. I remember watching the genocide unfold on BBC broadcasts — grainy footage, urgent headlines and a sense of distant horror. I recall the confusion, the disbelief, the inability to understand how such violence could erupt so swiftly and so mercilessly.
But standing before the mass graves yesterday, some sealed, others still open, I realised how inadequate memory can be when it is not anchored in place. The graves do not ask for pity. They demand reckoning. They demand that we confront not only what happened, but how it happened, and why.
The memorial is not just a site of remembrance; it is a mirror. It reflects the consequences of division, of propaganda, of the slow erosion of empathy. It forces us to ask tough questions. What does it mean to be human in the face of such inhumanity? What does it mean to remember responsibly?
Izzy and Penny, aged seven and nine, were not allowed to enter the museum’s interior. The exhibits, we were told, are too graphic for children under 12. We understood the policy, but we felt its limitations.
Our intention was not to traumatise, but to start understanding. We wanted our children to begin grasping the weight of history, not through abstraction, but through proximity.
Even outside the museum, the gravity of the memorial was palpable. The children saw the graves. They asked questions. They felt the silence. And in that silence, we found space to talk, not just about Rwanda, but about humanity. About what happens when we forget that every person is a story, not a statistic. About how hatred, once institutionalised, can turn neighbours into enemies and communities into killing fields.
We spoke about dignity. About the sanctity of life. About the importance of seeing others not through the lens of tribe or nationality, but through the lens of shared humanity. These are not easy conversations to have with children. But they are necessary. Because if we do not teach them to recognise the signs of dehumanisation early, we risk raising another generation that will be caught off guard when history repeats itself.
As a Zimbabwean, I left the memorial with a heavy heart and a sharpened sense of responsibility. Rwanda’s genocide was not an anomaly; it was a culmination. A culmination of political manipulation, media incitement and the deliberate dismantling of social cohesion. And while the scale of Rwanda’s tragedy is singular, the conditions that enabled it are not.
Across our continent, we see troubling echoes. The xenophobic attacks in South Africa, particularly those associated with Operation Dudula, are not just political missteps; they are moral failures. When foreigners are scapegoated, when violence is normalised, when rhetoric turns toxic, we must pause. We must remember Rwanda.
We must remember what happens when we do not see each other as humans first.
We must also examine our own societies. In Zimbabwe, where economic hardship has frayed the social fabric, where political polarisation has deepened and where public trust in institutions has been eroded, we must ask: “Are we cultivating empathy or resentment? Are we building bridges or fortifying walls?”
Yet amid the sorrow, there is admiration. Rwanda today is a country transformed. The journey it has travelled since 1994 is nothing short of extraordinary. The order that prevails here is visible in the clean streets, the disciplined driving, the calm temperament of its people, and the secure, well-managed public spaces. There is a sense of collective purpose, of national healing, of quiet dignity.
What struck me most was the model of reconciliation and forgiveness. It is not performative; it is lived. It is woven into the fabric of daily life.
Survivors and perpetrators live side by side. Communities have rebuilt not just homes, but trust. The government has invested in unity, in memory and in progress. And although the scars remain, they are not hidden; they are acknowledged, honoured, and used as fuel for peace.
This is what makes Rwanda’s story so powerful. The genocide was horrific, yes. But what followed, the rebuilding, the reconciliation, the refusal to be defined by hatred, is what makes this country a beacon.
It is a reminder that even in the aftermath of darkness, light is possible. That forgiveness, though difficult, is not impossible. That healing, though slow, is not out of reach.
To my fellow Africans, I say this: let Rwanda’s pain be our lesson. Let its recovery be our inspiration. Let its commitment to unity be our blueprint. We must never allow hatred to fester. We must never allow division to be weaponised. And we must never forget that peace is not passive; it is built, protected and nurtured.
We must invest in education, not just the kind that teaches arithmetic and grammar, but the kind that teaches empathy, critical thinking and historical consciousness. We must teach our children to ask tough questions, to challenge dangerous narratives and to stand up for those who are marginalised. We must teach them that peace is not the absence of conflict, but the presence of justice.
As we left the memorial, I held my children’s hands a little tighter. I whispered to them that the world is not always kind, but we must be. That history is not always fair, but we must learn from it. And that love — radical, inclusive, unwavering love — is the only antidote to hate. Rwanda taught me that yesterday. And I will carry that lesson with me always.
Wellington Muzengeza is a Zimbabwean built environment practitioner and education reform advocate with a background in infrastructure and land systems. His writing explores themes of memory, resilience and the recalibration of African narratives through lived experience.
A father’s thoughts as he visits the memorial to the 1994 genocide with his family