Albert Gasake, seen from behind, looking out across an autumn field

A survivor’s blog since 2013

I was ten in 1994. I still write for that boy.

Justice, memory, and the stories survivors are told to keep quiet.

And for everyone who never got to grow up. Here I write about his hopes, his fears, and, I’ll admit, quite often his frustrations. This is where I share the stories survivors are told to keep quiet or are too afraid to tell, about justice, memory, human rights, and life after the genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda.

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From the archive

Stories from the past thirteen years, chosen at random.

Rolling hills at dawn, with a path winding toward the light

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