Each April, Rwanda gathers in solemn reflection to remember the horrors of 1994, when over one million people—mostly Tutsi—were brutally murdered in 100 days of orchestrated violence.
The words “Never Again” are repeated in hushed tones and bold declarations, echoing through memorial grounds, classrooms, and government platforms. It is a phrase that has come to define Rwanda’s rebirth and resilience.
Yet today, that phrase has begun to feel hollow.
As the world watches atrocities unfold in Gaza—where civilians are bombed in their homes, children buried in rubble, hospitals destroyed, and entire communities erased—Rwanda has remained disturbingly silent.
This silence, coming from a nation that once stood as the world’s most powerful symbol of survival and moral clarity after genocide, raises a painful question: does “Never Again” only apply within Rwandan borders?
President Paul Kagame, one of the most vocal advocates of this pledge, has consistently used the phrase to define Rwanda’s post-genocide commitment to justice and peace.
At the 25th commemoration of the genocide in 2019, Kagame declared: “Our journey has been long and tough. We have encountered obstacles along the way, but we always overcame. That’s why we say: Never Again. And we mean it.”
In 2014, speaking before the United Nations at the 20th anniversary of the genocide, Kagame went further: “We say ‘Never Again’ not just with words, but with actions and a readiness to defend what we have built.”
These were not mere rhetorical flourishes. They were meant to be a warning, a moral compass, and a commitment to the protection of life anywhere that genocide threatened to surface.
But now, in 2025, as the people of Gaza endure indiscriminate attacks and state-sponsored violence on a mass scale, as IDF soldiers open fire at children running for food aid, Rwanda’s commitment to that moral compass is in question.
The Kigali government has not issued public statements condemning the killing of civilians or calling for restraint. There has been no diplomatic protest, no solidarity with the victims, and no invocation of the very principle that Rwanda teaches its children and preaches to the world.
This silence is not without context. Rwanda and Israel have maintained strong bilateral ties for years, with cooperation spanning technology, defence, agriculture, and security. These ties have grown closer in recent years, as Rwanda positions itself as Israel’s trusted partner in Africa.
In international forums, Rwanda has often stood with Israel even when much of the world voiced concern over its human rights record.
The political equation, however, grows more complex under the current leadership in the United States. President Donald Trump has intensified his pro-Israel stance, repeatedly describing Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu as “a war hero” and “the best ally America has.”
He is openly pressuring Israel’s judiciary to drop corruption charges against Netanyahu, and there is little tolerance for dissent among US allies. For a country like Rwanda, which relies on Western political goodwill and financial partnerships, criticizing Israel under Trump could invite backlash, funding cuts, or diplomatic isolation.
Caught in this web of political loyalty and strategic survival, the Kigali administration has chosen silence. But in doing so, it has risked something far more valuable: moral integrity.
Rwandans understand what it means to be abandoned. In 1994, while machetes tore through families and the country burned, the world stood by. Peacekeepers were withdrawn. Foreign governments issued statements of concern, but refused to intervene.
The genocide was not even formally acknowledged until the killing was nearly over. Just like it is happening with the Palestinians in Gaza. In Kigali and Nyamata and Murambi, entire communities perished knowing that help would not come.
That same feeling of abandonment now haunts Gaza. And the silence from Rwanda—of all nations—cuts especially deep.
Louise Mushikiwabo, Rwanda’s former Minister of Foreign Affairs, once said: “Never Again is not a slogan. For Rwandans, it is a way of life, a promise to the dead, and a duty to the living.” That duty, today, demands not just remembrance but action.
Speaking up for Gaza is not a betrayal of political alliances; it is a fulfillment of the values Rwanda has claimed to uphold since it pulled itself from the ashes of genocide.
In schools across Rwanda, children are taught about the genocide through civic education programs, community dialogues, and visits to memorial sites. They are told about what happens when hate is allowed to thrive and the world turns away.
Dr Jean-Damascène Bizimana, Rwanda’s Minister for National Unity and Civic Engagement, put it simply: “We teach ‘Never Again’ in our schools and communities because memory without education is not enough. The next generation must carry it forward.”
But what will these children make of their leaders’ refusal to speak out on Gaza? What are they to learn when the principle of “Never Again” is applied selectively—when it is good enough for Rwanda, but not for Palestine?
They may one day ask why, when children their age were being killed in Gaza, their government chose political safety over moral courage.
It is not too late for Rwanda to reclaim its voice. To condemn mass killings is not to betray Israel or Donald Trump. It is to stand for human life, for justice, and for the very principles Rwanda has preached for decades.
The international community failed Rwanda in 1994. Today, Rwanda is failing Gaza—not with bullets, but with silence.
If “Never Again” is to remain a sacred promise and not a broken refrain, it must mean what it claims. It must mean standing up, speaking out, and refusing to let fear silence the truth. Because if a nation built from genocide cannot speak against genocide, then who can?