The rhythm that survived genocide
In Nyanza, the cultural heart of Rukali in Rwanda’s southern province, I learned to play traditional instruments at my grandparents’ knees. They were Indigenous Rwandan musicians who passed down more than melodies. They shared a living connection to culture, to community, to belonging itself.
I remember the times when all people, regardless of their backgrounds, celebrated events together. Singing, playing instruments, dancing together, sharing everything to support one another.
Those memories would become my lifeline.
When the world broke apart
In 1994, when I was just 15 years old, Rwanda descended into 100 days of unimaginable horror. Neighbors turned against neighbors. Friends became enemies. The genocide erased an entire generation.
I lost everyone. My entire family stolen away in waves of violence that defied comprehension. It was unbearable to contain the feelings and emotions bottling up inside.
With my entire family dead, I came to the harsh realization that I was all alone in a world filled with cruelty. It seemed as though demons had possessed people, driving them to commit unspeakable acts with chilling indifference.
The genocide ended, but for a 15-year-old orphan, the hardest part was just beginning. Alone, grieving, forced to help dispose of thousands of decaying bodies along the roads with my bare hands, I faced a choice between drowning in trauma or finding something, anything, to hold onto.
The gift my grandparents left me
In my darkest moment, I understood that all I had left were the musical skills my wonderful grandparents had planted in me like seeds. Music became my lifeline, putting food on the table.
I sought out musicians and dancing troupes across Rwanda, joining anyone who would have me. Every performance became an act of survival. But it became something more too. With each traditional instrument I played, each song I sang, each dance I learned, I was rebuilding myself from the inside out.
While I was playing my traditional instruments, dancing, and singing, I was learning more and more about my culture and music. I was improving both my musical ability and my mental health with every passing day that I got to play music and dance.
Building on broken ground
I found mentors who saw potential where others might have seen only trauma.
I am deeply grateful to the renowned musician Bwanakweli Nathan for teaching me how to sing and play traditional trumpets, amakondera, which proved invaluable later on. Additionally, I owe much to Rujindiri and Sebatunzi, masters of the traditional Rwandan zither, for inspiring me to play the inanga and helping me develop my skills.
Later, I became a member of the National Ballet Urukerereza of Rwanda, performing alongside professional artists as a custodian of Indigenous Rwandan culture. It was more than a job. It was proof that my life could change, that beauty could emerge from ashes.
It took a long time to finally accept and believe that my life would change for the better, and this professional practice was a significant factor in this process.
Breaking tradition to heal
As I rebuilt my own life through music, I began teaching women to drum.
Before the genocide, drumming had been reserved only for men. But after witnessing the trauma that women survived, I knew they needed their own path to healing. When women took up the drums, they claimed a voice and reclaimed their stories. The rhythms they created became their own form of resistance and recovery.
Carrying culture across oceans
In 2009, I moved to Canada, becoming one of very few cultural Rwandan ambassadors in North America. Thousands of miles from the hills where my grandparents first placed an instrument in my hands, I continue their legacy.
Music feels like my destiny and the fulfillment of my life’s purpose. I use it to offer healing to others because it continually brings me back to life.
The questions that never quiet
This year marks 31 years since the genocide against the Tutsi of Rwanda. As a survivor, certain questions still echo in my mind.
Why were we subjected to such horrors?
Why did I survive while so many perished?
The questions may never find satisfactory answers. But I cling to the belief that there is a greater purpose. Personally, I see it as my responsibility to shape a brighter and more peaceful future.
I dedicate my talent to all who need healing, using my music and traditional instruments to bring hope to others, even when it’s not easy, and perhaps especially then.
Passing it forward
Now I have a young son, and I watch him growing up in a world so different from the one I knew at his age. When I teach him the same traditional instruments my grandparents taught me, I’m not just preserving our culture. I’m showing him that love is stronger than loss, that beauty can rise from ashes, that music carries the voices of those who came before us.
My grandparents gave these gifts to me. I give them to my son. And through my performances and teaching, I offer them to anyone who needs to remember that healing is possible.
Beyond my own family, I teach traditional Rwandan drumming to a new generation of young people in Canada. When I see their hands learning the rhythms, when I hear them finding their voice through the drums, I see the cycle continuing.
These young drummers may not carry the same scars I do, but they carry forward the same culture, the same resilience, the same refusal to let beauty be silenced.
The sound of resistance
In my hands, traditional Rwandan instruments don’t just preserve the past. They build bridges to the future. Every performance is an act of beautiful resistance against the violence that tried to silence my culture, my family, my very existence.
The music my grandparents gave me didn’t just save my life.
It gave me a way to save others, one song at a time.
When I play, I play for the grandparents who taught me.
For the family I lost.
For the 15-year-old boy who chose music over despair.
For the women who found their voice through drums they were never allowed to touch.
For my son, who will carry this legacy forward.
For the young drummers learning these ancient rhythms in a new land.
And for everyone who needs to remember that even after the deepest trauma, beauty can be medicine, and art can be the strongest act of survival.
About the Author:
Vincent Nsengiyumva is an interdisciplinary musician, composer, and teacher specialising in traditional Rwandan music and dance. A survivor of the 1994 genocide, Vincent found healing and purpose through music, training under renowned masters including Bwanakweli Nathan, Rujindiri, and Sebatunzi before joining the National Ballet Urukerereza of Rwanda at age 15.
Since immigrating to Canada in 2009, Vincent has become one of North America’s leading ambassadors of Rwandan culture. He founded and continues to direct the Komezinganzo Group, which performs traditional Rwandan music and dance across Quebec and beyond. He was the first to challenge tradition by teaching women to drum, an art form historically reserved for men, creating pathways for healing and empowerment.
Vincent performs on multiple traditional instruments including the inanga (Rwandan zither), ingoma (drums), amakondera (horns), and umuduli (single-string instrument), as well as modern instruments. He has performed at major festivals and cultural events throughout Canada, including the Montreal First Peoples Festival. In 2021, he collaborated with Vancouver-based Onibana Taiko on the Canada Council-supported project “Big Drums with Heart: Creating a Virtual Village of Beats & Melodies with Taiko & Rwandan Drums,” exploring the connections between Japanese taiko and Rwandan ingoma drumming traditions through virtual exchange during the COVID-19 pandemic. He has composed original albums including Iwacu Heza (My Beautiful Homeland) and teaches traditional Rwandan drumming to new generations of young people, using music as medicine to offer healing while preserving and sharing the rich cultural heritage of Rwanda. Vincent currently works as the Computer Specialist Analyst for the First Nations Regional Adult Education Centre in Kahnawake.
