It was just a greeting—simple, effortless. Yet, it felt like the world paused. A boy said, 'Good morning, Sir,' and it wasn’t just words—it was recognition, warmth, a reminder that connection still exists. In Rwanda, we call this ubumuntu—the essence of humanity. In a rushed world, small acts remind us that we are seen, that we belong. That boy’s words stayed with me, not because they were grand, but because they were real. And that’s how we hold on to each other.

Tonight, as I sit at my dinner table, the meal feels heavier than usual—not in weight, but in meaning. Each bite carries more than flavor; it carries a story. The greens wilt under the heat of a world changing too fast. The bread crumbles like the promises we once made to the land. And in the sweetness of the roasted carrots, I taste something bitter: the knowledge that to eat well in this world is to reckon with the cost of plenty.

When I first heard the terms “hard” and “soft” science, I didn’t realize I was stepping into a quiet divide—one that elevates data while overlooking the dignity of lived experience. Years later, I’ve come to believe that science is at its best when it unites rigor with empathy, and when discovery is shaped not only by numbers, but by the people those numbers represent.

Thirty-one years after the Genocide against the Tutsi, I reflect not just on what was lost—but on what can still be rebuilt. This is for any