This is the third in an occasional series of blog posts about a visit to Rwanda this past summer. The first and second can be found at the included links.

In the hills of Rwanda lies a small yet powerful symbol of hope and humanity—the Rweru Reconciliation Village. This unique community, located in the Bugesera district, is home to a blend of genocide survivors and perpetrators who have chosen to live side by side in the aftermath of one of the darkest chapters in modern history. The village exemplifies the power of forgiveness, the resilience of the human spirit, and the strength of Rwanda’s nationwide commitment to unity and reconciliation.

Born from Tragedy

In the years that followed the 1994 Rwandan Genocide against the Tutsi, Rwanda embarked on a remarkable journey of recovery. A key part of that journey was the country’s dedication to reconciliation and justice through local Gacaca courts (the subject of a future blog post), a traditional community-based legal system, which allowed perpetrators to confess, express remorse, and seek forgiveness. As this national process unfolded, the idea for reconciliation villages such as Rweru took root. They were designed as places where survivors and perpetrators could come together to rebuild trust, heal wounds, and forge a future based on forgiveness.

Living Testimonies: Stories of Survival and Forgiveness

During our first days in Rwanda, we visited the Kigali Genocide Memorial and the Nyamata Genocide Memorial—somber places filled with the weight of unspeakable loss and tragedy as portrayed in a prior blog post, Putting A Face to the Harm–Commemorating Lives. One afternoon, however, we entered a different reality as we visited the Rweru Reconciliation Village. For us, the emotional shift was palpable. We were immediately embraced by the warmth and vibrancy of a community that, despite its painful past, radiated hope, resilience, and the power of forgiveness. The contrast between the memorials and the village was profound, reminding us of both the depths of human suffering and ongoing trauma and the strength of the human spirit to heal and rebuild.

As we entered the village, a group of playful and curious children greeted us, embodying the hope that this place defines.

Shortly after, we were welcomed into a room filled with villagers, who greeted us with song and dance. The villagers’ performance was not just a welcome but a reflection of the collective spirit of reconciliation that thrives in Rweru—an experience that left a lasting imprint on all of us.

Within Rweru, the concept of reconciliation is not just theoretical—it is lived each day. The village houses both survivors who lost everything during the genocide and former perpetrators who have completed their sentences and sought forgiveness. Their stories are deeply moving and offer insight into the complexities of forgiveness.

One of the most powerful stories we heard was that of Maria Izagiriza, a survivor, and Philbert Ntezirizaza, a former perpetrator, who now live side by side. At their request, I share their story. Through an interpreter, Maria courageously shared her painful journey, offering a glimpse into her experiences and resilience. Maria’s husband and six of her nine children were brutally murdered during the genocide. Her emotional wounds were so deep she thought she could never heal. Her pain was compounded when she discovered that her neighbor, Philbert, had participated in the massacre that took her loved ones.

Philbert, who was imprisoned after the genocide, carried with him the burden of guilt. After serving his time, he returned to the community with a heart full of remorse. Like many others who had been part of the violence, he sought to make amends through Rwanda’s reconciliation process. Philbert knew that facing Maria would be one of the hardest things he had to do, but he also recognized it was essential for both of them to move forward.

When Philbert first approached Maria to ask for her forgiveness, the meeting was tense. Maria could barely contain her anger and sorrow. How could she forgive the man responsible for the deaths of her family? But over time, through multiple encounters facilitated by the village’s reconciliation programs, Maria saw the deep remorse in Philbert’s eyes. He shared how he had been consumed by violence and hatred but had come to understand the gravity of his actions. He asked for her forgiveness, not to absolve him of his guilt, but to help them both take a step toward healing.

It took years, but Maria, driven by her faith and a desire to free herself from the emotional chains of hatred, made the incredibly difficult decision to forgive Philbert. In doing so, she found a sense of peace she hadn’t felt since the genocide. Today, Maria and Philbert are not just neighbors but collaborators. They work together in the village fields, helping to grow food that sustains their community. Their story is a testament to the possibility of reconciliation, even between individuals whose lives have been torn apart by unimaginable violence.

The Importance of Forgiveness and Reconciliation

The process of reconciliation in Rwanda is not without challenges. For many, forgiveness is a slow and deeply personal journey, shaped by cultural and spiritual beliefs. But for those who live in Rweru and other reconciliation villages, forgiveness is seen not as condoning past atrocities, but to break free from the cycle of hatred.

The Rweru Reconciliation Village plays a critical role in Rwanda’s broader recovery. By housing both survivors and perpetrators in the same community, it creates a space for restorative practices to thrive and where healing can occur through daily interaction. The village is designed to foster dialogue, mutual understanding, and cooperation. Residents participate in joint activities, such as farming and building homes, which create opportunities for shared purpose and trust-building.

The impact of this model reaches far beyond the village. It shows the world that even in the face of unspeakable horrors, it is possible for communities to come together, forgive, and rebuild. Rwanda’s example of national reconciliation demonstrates the power of collective healing, and reconciliation villages like Rweru are a testament to the strength of that process.

During our visit, we also had the opportunity to engage in a powerful exchange of questions with the villagers. I asked them what they believed would have happened if forgiveness and reconciliation had not been embraced after the genocide. One villager’s response was profound and haunting: “We would have destroyed each other,” he said, explaining how anger and hatred could have consumed them entirely, leaving no chance for peace or survival. The choice to forgive, they emphasized, was not just for healing; it was a matter of survival for their community and the future of their children.

In turn, the villagers asked us a couple of question as well: “Why are Americans so divided when they have everything? Can Americans forgive?” These questions struck deeply, not because of their simplicity, but because of their complexity. In a country like Rwanda, where reconciliation had been necessary to rebuild after such devastating loss, their observation about division in a nation like the United States felt both insightful and challenging. These were not easy questions to answer, and they left us reflecting on our own capacity for forgiveness, unity, and what it truly means to heal from deep divides.

A National Model for Healing

The success of Rweru has inspired the creation of other reconciliation villages across Rwanda. These communities are part of a larger vision of unity championed by the Rwandan government and the National Unity and Reconciliation Commission. The goal is to foster peace and solidarity, not just among individuals, but across the entire nation. Rwanda has made it clear that its future will be built on a foundation of unity, not division.

While the scars of the genocide will never fully fade, the people of the Rweru Reconciliation Village are living proof that it is possible to move forward. Their lives are a testament to the transformative power of forgiveness, restorative justice, and the resilience of the human spirit. By choosing reconciliation over revenge, many in Rwanda have redefined the future of their community, setting an example for their country—and the world—that peace can arise even from the darkest of times.

Engaging with Rweru Village elder and genocide survivor

“Forgive and forget” — so the saying goes. But in Rwanda, they must forgive yet remember.

Memory matters because:

• The 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi killed more than one million men, women, and children over four months, making the ability to forget both an imp ossibility and an unspeakable betrayal of the victims.
• If Rwanda is to continue to exist, memory must be the prerequisite for creating peace in a country where the genocide’s survivors and perpetrators are neighbors, co-workers and even family members who live side-by-side.

The depths of this powerful dual truth connecting memory and genocide echoes the “never again” commitment following the Holocaust. Ironically, humans and history have yet to learn how to stop repeating deliberate and systematic extermination of others because, tragically, hatred is a lesson that is too often taught successfully.

This past July, I experienced firsthand the power of memory for overcoming hatred and creating peace. I was given the opportunity to attend a four-day conference in Rwanda held in conjunction with the 30th anniversary commemorating the Genocide against the Tutsi. Titled “Listening and Leading: The Art & Science of Peace, Resilience & Transformational Justice,” the event was hosted by Aegis Trust, a global nonprofit that two brothers from England launched in 2000 to keep alive the memory of the Holocaust and other genocides. Today the organization is broadly dedicated to predicting and preventing genocide and crimes against humanity. Why did I go to the Aegis Trust conference?

My friend Terri de Roon Cassini, director of the Comprehensive Injury Center and a clinician specializing in trauma care at the Medical College of Wisconsin, received an invitation from Aegis Trust to attend the conference based on MCW’s evolving work in community-based violence prevention in Milwaukee. She invited me to make the 16-hour trip with her colleagues to Rwanda because of my parallel work directing the Andrew Center for Restorative Justice at Marquette University Law School. Restorative justice is partly about remembering so that we can move forward—how acknowledging and responding to harm can lead to healing and safety for those harmed, accountability and compassion for those who harm, and stronger and safer communities.

In that light, I felt compelled to go to Rwanda because its people have something to teach us as Americans grappling with a violence epidemic. Something vital I want to share—especially with those of us in Milwaukee, working to prevent community-based violence. That is my motivation for a series of blogs, beginning with this one that necessarily establishes the sad context of the Genocide against the Tutsi. Captured below is information from the walls of memorial centers, and testimonials from survivors and perpetrators who know all too well that understanding the pathway to genocide is key to prevention.

From peace to hatred

For centuries, 18 different clans constituting the peoples of Rwanda lived peacefully. With a common language, they built a history and culture, sharing and thriving on the rich, fertile hills of their native land in central Africa. But Belgian colonial rule resulting from World War I introduced divisions based on socioeconomic and racial distinctions, categorizing people primarily as Hutu, Tutsi, and Twa. An identity card system initiated in 1932 labeled each person. For three decades, Belgian favoritism of the Tutsi fostered a growing divide. The Hutu widened it after the literal and figurative death of monarchy in 1959, which ushered in Rwandan independence by 1962. Power was in the hands of a highly centralized, single party that created a repressive state with a singular goal: emancipation of the Hutu by exacting revenge against the Tutsi.

Civil unrest became the norm through an incessant propaganda campaign that included elementary school education. Hate speech taught the majority to see the Tutsi as Inyenzi—cockroaches—despite being neighbors, friends, and even family due to generations of intermarriage. Mandates such as the Hutu Ten Commandments dictated absolute rule and superiority of the Hutu while justifying punishment of “traitorous” Hutu who allied with Tutsi or prevented the commandments from being spread as the prevailing ideology.

Hate was effectively learned over the next decades, with the teaching of persecution that included imprisoning, torturing and massacring thousands of Tutsis. By 1973, 700,000 Tutsis were exiled, while thousands of Tutsis and Hutu moderates left Rwanda on their own. Prevented from returning home despite peaceful efforts to do so, many refugees formed a resistance movement known as the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RFP) and invaded Rwanda in 1990.

During the ensuing civil war, the government established internal refugee camps, heightening tension and fear of the Inyenzi. The waralso brought the return of European powers in the form of the United Nations, which tried to negotiate peace with a president who had no control over extremists. Despite hearing of the atrocities, the rest of the world effectively did nothing while all Tutsi were registered via the identity-card system—part of the us-vs.-them impetus of the extremists’ extermination plan designed for ethnic cleansing. This powder keg was lit when the Rwandan president was assassinated on April 6, 1994. The Genocide against the Tutsi was instant and merciless.

Maybe you saw the Don Cheadle film Hotel Rwanda and have a sense of the brutality. Roadblocks went up as militia identified and killed Tutsis. Murderous house-to-house searches led by Hutu extremists armed with machetes, clubs, and guns were widespread. Generations were slaughtered as neighbors, friends, and family members turned on each other. Even women and children were forced to be perpetrators of death and destruction from which no Tutsi was exempt, with Hutu and Tutsi women forced to kill their own Tutsi children. I share the following because we cannot remember what we may not know:

• 10,000 Tutsis were killed daily—seven per minute—over 100 days that wiped out more than one million people.
• 300,000+ children were orphaned while 85,000 children became the heads of their household.
• Homes and infrastructure were demolished; looting, lawlessness, starvation, and chaos were rampant.
• Tens of thousands were tortured, mutilated, and raped, with thousands of widows being intentionally infected with HIV.

The Genocide against the Tutsi eliminated about 1/8 of Rwanda’s population until the RFP was ultimately able to stop the killing in July 1994—without international assistance. Where would Rwanda go from there—and how? Why should the world take note when it turned the other way during the genocide?

Answers lie in the genocide memorial centers and reconciliation villages Rwanda has created to reflect the people and stories behind the stark numbers shared above—the faces that survivors and perpetrators alike knew and the hard truths they lived, the bases for mustering the power of memory necessary to find a way out of violence.

Survivors such as Freddie Mutanguha, CEO, Aegis Trust, and Jesuit priest Rev. Dr. Marcel Uwineza, S.J., capture the country’s current prevailing sentiment from which we all can learn: “To remember is to act so that those criminal activities never happen again. So, to remember is to do justice.”

I seek to do justice by sharing more of what I learned those four days this past July. From survivor care and commemoration to reintegration and reconciliation, my next blog post will take up how memory matters in furthering a hopeful truth that the late South African anti-apartheid activist, politician, and statesman Nelson Mandela once described: “If you can learn to hate, you can be taught to love.”