Dr. William A. Twayigize

I am Dr. William A. Twayigize, and my journey is a testament to the unwavering human spirit, determination, and the incredible strength that comes from faith. My roots are in a tranquil rural village nestled between Uganda, Zaire/DR Congo, and northern Rwanda. As a child, I was fortunate to have a joyous and idyllic upbringing.

One of my fondest memories is waking up early each morning to witness the breathtaking sight of the sun ascending over Mt. Muhabura, its warm rays enveloping the entire Umulera.

I cherished the anticipation of the fall season, as it meant the resumption of school. During those rare moments, my father would gather all of us, his numerous children from his several wives, herd us into his old Toyota Corolla pickup, and drive at 80km per hour on the bumpy dusty road to take us to the government-run supermarket called TRAFIPRO in Ruhengeri town to purchase our school uniforms. It was a magical experience that remains etched in my heart.

However, the tranquility of our childhood was abruptly shattered in 1991 when rebel attacks from Uganda ravaged our land. The ensuing chaos forced us to embark on a treacherous journey spanning over 6,000 km, from the Kibeho Parish massacre to Bukavu, Goma, Walikale, Tingi-Tingi, Kisangani, Ikella, Mbandaka, Kinshasa, Brazzaville, Djambela, and finally reaching Franceville in Gabon. Death lurked everywhere, and survival depended on consuming wild roots.

Our glimmer of hope for safety was cruelly extinguished when the UNHCR, in collusion with the security forces of Gabonese dictator Omar Bongo’s administration and the new Tutsi regime in Rwanda, led by Colonel Charles Kayonga, plotted to abduct us and forcefully return us to Rwanda, the very place we had been desperately fleeing. This harrowing abduction thrust us into the merciless hands of our tormentors, where we endured confinement in torture chambers, relentless starvation, and various forms of torture, including waterboarding. The relentless pangs of hunger became a haunting reality. General Karake Karenzi’s heartless command resounded in the darkness, demanding 40 lifeless Hutu refugee bodies every morning – a chilling and heart-wrenching sight. In the midst of this abyss, I counted the days, fully aware that my life dangled by a precarious thread, with no more than a fortnight, at best.

While Tutsi soldiers subjected us to relentless torture day and night, their aim was to ensure our slow and agonizing demise. They believed they had successfully extinguished our lives, proceeding to gather our lifeless bodies and transport them to a makeshift mortuary. As per their usual practice, they contacted the Red Cross to arrange for the collection of our bodies, with the intention of conducting a mass burial in Kigali. However, against all odds, the subsequent events have become a part of history, and here I stand today, recounting the journey of my life. The sheer miracle of my survival serves as a profound testament to the divine intervention that guided my path to this very moment. If not for the grace of God!

Nestled within the Ruhengeri region lies a village adorned with pristine natural beauty—a serene sanctuary that, tragically, became a hell on earth for countless Rwandans during the ravages of war.

After enduring months of painstaking recovery under the care of the Red Cross, I mustered the strength to return to the village that had once been my cherished home. The journey, a solemn 15-kilometer trek from Ruhengeri City in Kigombe Commune to the shopping center that held my deepest memories, was shrouded in a heavy pall of sorrow. With each step, I encountered an unforgiving landscape, one scarred by relentless devastation and marked by row upon row of graves. These were not just anonymous resting places; they were the final resting sites of families whose names I had known well, and of children who had once been my companions in carefree days gone by. The path revealed the remnants of homes, now reduced to mere memories, and families that had vanished forever from this world. The cruel hand of death, unleashed through the merciless military operation known as “Songamana” by the Tutsi government, had cast its shadow upon my own kin and community alike. My father, uncles, aunts, neighbors, and the very childhood friends with whom I had played, all had been swallowed by the relentless violence that had engulfed our once-thriving shopping center. What remained was a haunting silence, an eerie ghost town forever haunted by the indelible scars of its past.

Hotel Muhabura, a cherished landmark in Ruhengeri, northern Rwanda, invokes nostalgic memories of my childhood. We used to pass by this storied hotel while visiting the city or supporting our regional football team, Mukungwa FC, on Sundays. I would often tell my peers that one day when I grow up I will dine in the same hotel as the affluent patrons we observed there. When I said that, other kids would laugh at me heartily. Today, it is believed that Muhabura Hotel now preserves the legacy of Nyiramacibiri in room number 12, where Dian Fossey Nyiramacibiri used to sleep, and her books, bed, and belongings are displayed.

I found myself in a place that had once held my hopes and dreams, but now it was a landscape of desolation and despair. Everywhere I looked, I saw the stark evidence of destruction, a grim reminder of the violence that had torn through the community. In the harsh light of day, there was an eerie silence that seemed to foretell the grim fate that awaited me. And when night descended, it brought with it the ominous presence of Tutsi soldiers, their military boots echoing around what had once been my father’s house—the very place of my birth. It was evident that they were merely biding their time, a fact they made clear to me in their menacing words, repeated day and night as I struggled to navigate the community with the aid of crutches.

Faced with relentless persecution by agents of the dictator Kagame who sought to erase my father’s legacy from his homeland, I had no choice but to seek refuge in exile once more, landing in Kenya, an utterly foreign land where language barriers left me adrift on the unforgiving streets of Nairobi, reduced to a life of begging for survival. However, fate took a compassionate turn, and amidst my darkest hours, Good Samaritans, including a Sierra Leonean family, offered me refuge and a second chance at life. Their benevolence provided not only shelter but also the invaluable opportunity for education, opening the door to a future I had once only dreamed of.

Following my education at Daystar University, God’s providence led me to a remarkable opportunity to serve as a civil servant in the Office of the President of Kenya. Subsequently, I embarked on a journey that took me to the United States, where I pursued graduate studies at several esteemed universities. After gaining professional experience in the United States, I embarked on a doctoral journey in Australia, before returning to the United States, where I have found my calling as an educator, shaping the minds of future generations.

In the words of Psalms 124:1-8 (NASB1995), “Had it not been the LORD who was on our side,” let us, the people of God, proclaim, “Had it not been the LORD who was on our side when men, our enemies, rose up against us, then they would have swallowed us alive, when their anger was kindled against us. Then the waters would have engulfed us, the stream would have swept over our soul; then the raging waters would have swept over our soul.” Blessed be the LORD, who has not given us to be torn by their teeth. Our soul has escaped as a bird out of the snare of the trapper; the snare is broken, and we have escaped. Our help is in the name of the LORD, who made heaven and earth.

Now welcome to my story, and follow me to learn how God has been on our side since my childhood to this very day.