OCTOBER 1, 2026 | A LETTER TO GENERAL FRED GISA RWIGYEMA
Dear General Fred,
Another October has come, and once again, I find myself writing to you.
Thirty-six years have passed since that October morning when you crossed from Uganda into Rwanda, carrying not only soldiers with you, but the hopes of generations of refugees who had spent decades wondering whether they would ever call Rwanda home again.
I was one of those children of exile.
My parents fled Rwanda in 1959. I was born in Uganda and inherited refugee life before I was old enough to understand what refugee meant.
We were told Rwanda was full. We were told to remain in exile.
Then you came.
You refused to accept that a Rwandan could be permanently denied his homeland. On October 1, 1990, you turned the refugee’s dream of return into a march toward home.
But you were with us for only one more sunrise.
October 2 came, and you were gone.
Your comrades continued the struggle and eventually opened the gates that had been closed to refugees.
But Fred, thirty-six years later, I must ask:
If you could see Rwanda today, would you recognize the country for which you gave your life?
You dreamed of a unified, democratic and prosperous Rwanda—a country belonging equally to all her children.
Yet Rwandans are again scattered across the world.
I am one of them.
The son of refugees who once celebrated the road home now writes to you from exile in the United States.
And this year, Fred, there’s another name I must bring to you:
Colonel Tom Byabagamba.
Tom who crossed at Kagitumba with you and continued the struggle after your departure, has joined you.
After 12 years behind bar, he died in prison.
And then there is the man who succeeded you.
Paul Kagame was once your subordinate and comrade in arms.
Today, in my view, the free Rwanda for which you fought has been transformed under his leadership into a brutal dictatorship. Power has become concentrated around one man, political dissent carries consequences, and fear has replaced much of the freedom for which so many sacrificed.
And now I fear something even more troubling: that after decades of one-man rule, political power may eventually be treated not as something entrusted by citizens, but as something to be preserved within a family—a dynasty replacing the republic that so many sacrificed to build.
Fred, surely this was not the destination.
You did not leave exile so another generation would be forced into exile.
You did not fight one system of exclusion so another system of fear could replace it.
You did not cross the border so Rwanda could belong to one man, one family, or one circle of power.
You crossed so Rwanda could belong to Rwandans.
Last year, I wrote to you that you had lit a fire of hope no tyrant could fully extinguish.
One year later, I return to tell you:
The flame is still burning.
It burns in Rwandans who dream of a country where disagreement is not treason, opposition is not an enemy, leadership is temporary, and political power passes through the will of the people—not through fear, force, or bloodline.
It burns in those scattered across the world who still call Rwanda home.
And it burns in me—a child born in exile who finds himself in exile again, but who still believes Rwanda can belong equally to all her children.
Thirty-six years later, Fred, we still remember.
We remember the refugee who became a soldier.
The soldier who became a leader.
And the leader who crossed the frontier carrying a people’s hope.
Rest, General Fred.
Perhaps this year, an old comrade rests beside you.
Your journey ended on October 2, 1990.
Ours continues.
Until exile is no longer the price of speaking one’s mind.
Until power belongs to the people, not to a man or a dynasty.
Until Rwanda belongs equally to all her children.
The flame has not died.
With honor, remembrance, and an unfinished hope,
Rusagara Ignace