I recently attended the wedding of a fellow survivor of the 1994 Rwanda genocide against the Tutsi. As I watched the radiant bride walk down the aisle, I was reminded of how even the happiest occasions can stir up memories of unimaginable loss.

When she reached the altar, the bride suddenly burst into tears. I understood her pain immediately. The room was filled with smiling guests, but not a single member of her immediate family was present. They had all been murdered during those 100 horrific days when over one million Tutsi were massacred.

At what should have been a purely happy occasion, the immense void left by the loss of her loved ones came crashing down on her.

I knew that pain all too well. I’ve felt that same void at similar milestones in my own life – the birth of my daughters, my college graduation, and reaching the age my parents were when they were killed. Simple, everyday moments that unexpectedly reopen the deep wounds of genocide.

In the early years after the genocide, I would chase after strangers on the street who vaguely resembled my father or mother, only to be heartbroken when I caught up to them. I would often see a bald, middle-aged man on the streets and for a split second think it was my father. Or a woman would walk by wearing an Igitenge outfit just like one my mother loved. Each time, my heart sank when I realized it wasn’t them.

I thought I was alone in this experience, but I’ve since learned that many fellow survivors went through the same thing.

With no graves to visit and no bodies to bury, we clung to any glimpse of our deceased relatives among the living. When you lose someone in such a violent, senseless way, the loss haunts you in unexpected moments for the rest of your life.

Nearly 30 years on, the genocide still casts a shadow over every occasion. At weddings, our lost loved ones should be there to join the celebration. When children are born, grandparents and aunts and uncles should be there to welcome them into the world. No matter how much time passes, we still feel the empty spaces where our families once stood.

The genocide stole our chance to properly mourn and bury our dead. So, we are left with these ghosts, reminders that appear in both dark moments and happy occasions. They lurk in the minds of those of us who survived when so many did not.

Yet on this wedding day, I also felt a sense of renewal. Life continues, even after the worst cruelties. Watching this young bride, orphaned but not defeated, start a new chapter in her life, I was filled with hope. The ghosts may linger, but they will not have the final say. Ends