My name is Nyramara, my name is Rwandan, as I was born in Rwanda in 1992 to an Italian father and a Rwandan mother. This mix obviously had ​to have​ some ​sort​ affect my personality, as those of you who follow my blog will know. My nomadic spirit, my impulsion to discover and my curiosity have taken me on trips to many different countries by myself, allowing me to involve myself with, and learn about, many wonderful cultures from around the world!

Being born in 1992 in Rwanda meant that I would soon have to leave my homeland. As many of you will know, the country was silently and inexorably preparing for one of the bloodiest genocides of the 1900s. Although I was completely unaware of what was about to happen, I was saved by my father, who’s unparalleled fatherly instinct, with smiles and hugs, cuddles and laughter, despite everything, allowed me to live in a fairytale in which we travelled the world. A wonderful African fairytale, a fairytale that after leaving Rwanda, took us to all of Subequatorial Africa, from Kenya’s beaches, to Tanzania and Mozambique, seeing villages and the vast forests of Uganda, to Burundi and the wonderful cities of South Africa, filling me with wonder and confusion of the different cultures, languages, traits, colours and smells. I never knew what language to speak, but nonetheless, it was all beautiful and full of wonder. The first few years of my life I grew up like this, bare feet, between the beautiful cities and the marvellous natural world.

One very hot morning in August of 1998, my mother and I were woken up by two, rather embarrassed but anxious, police officers (both for the beautiful woman that they had in front of them and for the little girl that was with her), who ask us to go to the station with them. My memories, even if vague, bring me back to a large room with a desk, with an elderly gentleman sat behind it, who asked us to sit down. This was the first time that I felt lost, and I will never forget it. The silence was deafening, my mother coudln’t understand what was happening and started asking questions as to why we were there. His answer was a simple gesture to his assistant, who briskly and coldly led me out of the room. As soon as that door closed, my life changed.

My hero was no longer there. That very month my father had decided we should move to Italy so I could start school so that I could start learning the culture and the language. He left for a work trip to Nicoadala in Mozambique to close the work that he had been doing there. The evening of the 8th of August, on his way back from Maputo while driving his pickup truck, he crashed into a ​asphalter​, hitting his head and due to a brain hemorage, he died several minutes later. No words can describe what it means for a child to lose their father at 6 years old, what it meant for my mother that became a widow at 27 years old, alone in a country that she didn’t know. After the accident, she looked after me as best she could, but it was a lady that lived under our flat that truely looked after me at

that time as my mother was distraught after losing my father. You might be wondering why you are reading this amazing and at the same time, a devastating period of my life, all because my hero, my father, even if in a short amount of time, left a part of himself in me, all of the best parts of him live on in me, which is the best gift a father could ever give his daughter: the desire to explore the world, the passion for helping others, to play and to laugh all the time, because no matter what, life is beautiful and we all just need to learn to take it as it comes.

In 2011 I returned to Rwanda, by myself, after 14 years of absence. I couldn’t wait to meet my family that I had left there and that I only discovered afterwards how much they meant to me. I will never forget how I felt, I simply felt at home. As the days passed though, I slowly realised what they had gone through during the genocide. The suffering that I couldn’t, and still can’t, even begin to imagine. I came to understand how much my father had tried to do for them and more than anything, how much he had done for me to protect me as if he was a lioness with her cubs. Learning the story of “the land of a thousand hills”, as it is called in Rwanda, changed my perspective and allowed my fathers selfless and curious personality to be reborn in me. I’ve had the honour of working and collaborating with Rwandan Onlus, Bene Rwanda, and to enter in the field of international cooperation, stimulating students to learn about our country, it’s story and inviting them to create projects that could help women and children that still live in conditions of poverty. The feeling I have of belonging to Rwanda leads me to be there more often, entering ever further into the culture. But that nomadic spirit has but grown inside me, taking me to explore other countries. Due to my age, I was able to decide to leave Italy and explore the World, and with your help, and that of those who like me, travel, I will travel within this Travel Blog, bringing you with me on this adventure.

It was the best decision I ever made! Help me grow, share my story!