Late in March 1994, around my 13th birthday, nothing could ever have prepared me for what was about to happen. Right after Easter, on April 6, the plane carrying the president of Rwanda was shot down as it was landing at Kigali International Airport. Within seconds, the genocide against the minority Tutsi group began. Over the next three months, around a million Tutsis were mercilessly slaughtered. This staggering number includes my parents and two of my siblings. A stranger saved me. My three younger siblings, who were eight, six, and three at the time also survived.
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