(WSLS 10) - Elie Muzungu is an orphan after his parents and brothers were killed in the Rwandan Genocide along with thousands of others. At just six years old he escaped to a refugee camp. He now lives in Roanoke and will graduate from Virginia Western Community College in May.
Here is his story of survival in his own words:
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I was born a Tutsi in The Democratic Republic of Congo, specifically Walikale in the Kivu region of Eastern Congo. Most of my life however was spent in the Kiziba Refugee Camp in Rwanda. At a young age I was orphaned by Hutu extremists bent on wiping out the Tutsi race. With the help of my neighbors, I escaped into Rwanda where I was relocated into what I thought would be a temporary camp. I spent the next 14 years of my life waiting.
Virginia Western graduates persevere through poverty, refugee camp
My country has not known peace in my, or its, lifetime. Congo's plentiful natural resources have financed or created much conflict since the Colonial Era. Our history is punctuated by European exploits, beginning with Belgian King Leopold II's slaughter of 10 million of my countrymen for rubber. Between then and now we Congolese have suffered exploitation and murder for our God-given riches: gold, tantalum, tin, cobalt, copper, tungsten, and diamonds. After the Tutsi Genocide of 1994 over 1,000,000 Rwandan Hutu were welcomed into the DRC. Many of these were the very rebels who committed the atrocity. The 100 days of genocide in Rwanda continued in The Democratic Republic of Congo. In 1996 Interahamwe, the paramilitary Hutu rebels were able to exploit the mines in Eastern Congo in order to fuel this continuous conflict. As a child, I heard rumors about students lured to the capital city Kinshasa by the hope of an education and a better life. Many disappeared without a trace. Some were killed - the details of murder by bludgeoning, axe, machete, or of burning alive within old tires spread to my community. We heard of stories of Hutu extremists traveling from town to town hunting Tutsi men, women, and children. After the rumors came the violence.
I was six years old when it was my village's turn. While playing in a neighbor's home, I heard yelling from outside. Smoke filled the sky as people ran screaming to escape the slaughter. My neighbor took me by the hand with only one command, "Run!" There was no time for goodbyes or looking back. I later learned my house was burned, our goats and cows were killed, and my parents and two younger brothers Patrick and Habimana were murdered. The rumors were true.
The escape to neighboring Rwanda was grueling. Days of walking with little food and water
took its toll on many of us. Most who left with personal belongings such as pots, pans, and clothing became fatigued and dropped them along the way as we travelled. It was dangerous as well as exhausting. I remember when we passed a big forest called Kauzibyega a friend entered to relieve himself. As his exhausted father watched unable to rescue him, a hyena took him forever. However, it was not only wild animals that we feared; in fact, the hyena was the least of our worries. For now the forest belonged to Interahamwe. These two-legged predators were, and are still, occupying the jungles throughout the Congo. They will attack without warning and not hesitate to cut down a Tutsi. Not wanting to elicit attention, we travelled at night in hushed passage into Rwanda.
When we arrived, we were split up and given temporary places to live like Koleje, Nakamura, and Mudende Refugee Camps in former Gisenyi Province. Luckily, I was not sent to the Mudende refugee camp where the FDLR Interahamwe came at night multiple times armed with machetes, spears and guns. They followed us into Rwanda and planned to finish all Tutsis. The insurgents murdered 1,000 people and abducted over 130 women and girls. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) and Rwandan authorities failed to protect us as well as failed to bring the perpetrators to justice. After the massacre, the war in Eastern Congo worsened and the numbers of refugees increased to over 74,000 Tutsi. I was sent to Kiziba refugee camp which housed 20,000 fellows Congolese Tutsi.
When we reached the camp, we thought life was going to change for the better. I soon found that it was a different story. The Rutihunzas, the neighboring family in Walikale, took me in as their own. I was one of 10 children. We lived first in tents provided by the UNHCR. Then, when we received trees from the American Refugee Committee (ARC), we built homes using wood, reeds, ropes, and mud for the walls and the tent and some wood for the roof. Since our family now had 12, we built two. Each had one living room and one bedroom for six people to share. Due to the large number of refugees, houses such as these were positioned directly next to each other in some cases abutting one another. In addition to crowded housing, there was little room for public toilets. Houses were frequently moved in order to accommodate latrines, which the ARC also provided. Since we had no heavy equipment to dig deeper holes, latrines were hand-dug three meters deep using spades, hoes, and wheelbarrows. These eight room latrines were shared by over 100 people, with always a line. In a few months the toilets would be full and were covered. Often, children fell through the cheap material used to cover the sewage-filled hole. If this happened, our best option for health care and treatment was prayer.
The ever-expanding African Humanitarian Action (AHA) was responsible for the medical program. We had a health care center with one doctor for all 20,000 refugees. High school educated nurses were responsible for day to day health concerns. If treatable, then the nurse sold you the drug available. If not treatable with an available medication, then you made an appointment to see the doctor in at least one month's time. The nearest hospital was in the Kibuye district and an ambulance drive away. There was also only one ambulance, so a traditional gurney of four sticks and a mat was usually used for the three hour walk. Not surprisingly, patients most often died in transit.
Aside from normal medical situations, we were constantly ill from malnutrition. UNHCR provided monthly a ration of food for each person. One individual received eight kilograms of corn, three kilograms of beans, 600 milliliters of oil, 200 grams of salt, and one bar of soap for the month. Once, however, UNHCR held off distributing food until they had a certain amount. As a result, the corn we received that month was rotten. Because other needs like shoes, clothes, and school materials were not provided, our family sold portions of corn and oil to buy necessities. As would be expected, our food ran out before the end of the month, and we needed to sell something such as shoes or pants to buy food from those with a bit to spare. It was an endless cycle of need, and my foster mother did the best that she could in a difficult situation. For instance, as a way of managing food we usually ate once a day so that we wouldn't run out. Most of us kids wandered around the camp during the day "visiting", which usually involved asking about and looking for food. To take my mind off my hunger, I remember playing soccer, we called it football. We used plastic bags and gloves we found in the health care center dumpster tied with rope as a ball. I played with friends all morning to make the day go by quickly because I couldn't go home yet- there was nothing to eat. I knew that food was for nighttime only. My days were spent waiting for clean water as well. Six tubs of water were shared among 50 houses, so we waited up to four hours to receive our allotment. Sometimes the machine didn't work, and we heard, "No water today!" It was a good day when we had both food and water.
For me, not every day was spent in search of food and water. I went in search of an education as well. A Catholic charity called Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS) provided education from kindergarten to middle school. If students scored well, then JRS paid their high school tuition as well. School was very different from here in America. Each class had one high school graduate instructor teaching 50 children. Everyone in our crowded classroom struggled with a lack of books, chalk, and paper. For example, every subject had only one book which the teacher used to write notes on the board. We then copied the notes from the board to our notebooks. Since there was no school bus or transportation, we missed quite a bit of school during the rainy season. The slippery walk was precarious. Our school attendance also fluctuated based on our home situation. School was not an option for some, for they were starving. The walk to and from a crowded school room is daunting when hunger fatigue sets in. When I completed middle school I had no hope that I would go on to the next level. I worried that my scores would not be high enough for JRS to pay for my high school. I feared my future would be that of others who didn't make the grade, becoming a stateless wastrel trapped in the camp or joining the Rwandan military. Being a refugee in Rwanda, I could not have access to land but was free to join their armed forces. I did however make the grade. They determined my score high enough to pay my tuition. Nevertheless, in 2006 we received notice they wouldn't be able to pay for high school education in the future. Those such as myself already enrolled could finish, but no future students could obtain tuition. JRS said they did all they could, but they had many refugees including those in Burundi. As you can imagine this caused a crisis in the camp. Students did not have money for food, so money for education was unthinkable. As you can imagine this caused some turmoil in the camp. For most education was their only prospect.
After 11 years in the camp I was selected by UNHCR for resettlement. Because I was an orphan I was selected before most. It was in 2006 that I began the process of interviews and exams. In each interview I explained how I lost my parents and came to be at Kiziba. Soon, I received an envelope from the United States Department of Immigration. I was congratulated on being chosen to go to the United States of America. Years passed, and I could not believe it was possible for me to ever leave the refugee camp. I was in high school in the Rutsiro district when I saw a UNHCR car pull up to front of the building. It was January 2009 when I was taken to my last interview and medical test. In October I received a call from a UNHCR agent who told me I would leave for the United States in November. It was like a dream for me. My prayers to God to not let me die in the refugee camp had been answered.
I left my foster family at Kiziba refugee camp on a Tuesday in November. I, with a few others, travelled to the Red Cross International Committee in Kigali, the Rwandan capital city. There, an International Organization for Migration (IOM) agent escorted me to Kanombe International Airport. He handed me an envelope that contained all the documents necessary for my trip. He warned us to hold onto the envelope and no matter what, "Don't lose it." I handed my luggage over to the security check in. I had no idea where they were taking my things, but I gave it to them without question. My IOM agent and I took a Brussels Airways flight to Entebbe International Airport in Uganda. Since this was my first experience on a plane, I replied, "Anything," when the flight attendant asked what I would like to eat. I was starving and hoped for more than the orange I was given - boh. We later changed flights in Brussels, and then continued on to New York City. We arrived on a Thursday afternoon. I was apprehensive as I handed over the precious envelope to an FBI agent who then took my fingerprints. I was afraid because I didn't understand what was happening. My IOM officer returned and handed me a flight ticket to Charlotte, North Carolina. While I waited alone for my flight to Charlotte I was overwhelmed with uncertainty. I had never seen such a crowd. There were hundreds of people moving back and forth in front of me. No one knew me or that I was hungry. I had money, but I didn't recognize what was food or know how to buy it. Everything was so strange. At 5:30 PM, I heard the announcement to board the plane and I was on my way. I spent the flight in thought - I was alone, I left my foster family, I left everything I knew.
When we landed at Douglas International Airport, I didn't see my caseworker. A fellow passenger Peter guided me to the baggage carousel where I finally saw the luggage I had worriedly given up days earlier. I remembered to hold my envelope showing the International Organization for Migration sign visible for my caseworker. He saw me and asked, "Are you Elie?" and I said, "Yes."
When I arrived in Charlotte my life changed drastically. There were tall buildings and beautiful roads the likes of which I had never seen. There were grocery stores filled with food I had no idea how to prepare. In Kiziba my foster mother prepared the corn, beans, and rice. Meat was only for New Year's Day. At home, a saw chickens running around; here, they were frozen in a package. In Africa, we had no need for a refrigerator let alone packaged foods to put in it. I had no family or fellow Tutsi who spoke my language. However, I did have new friends from all over the world. My first roommate Qassim Sultan was born in Iraq and grew up in Bangkok, Thailand. He knew how to cook! My other roommates were from Uganda and Iraq, and we shared a two bedroom apartment. Together we were learning how to live in this strange new place.
Soon, I found people that attended Seventh Day Adventist Church, which was my home church. Finally, something that I recognized! They helped my find jobs in and around Charlotte. I worked stocking retail at Value City, cleaning and oiling bread barrels at a bakery, and a forklift operator at Ross Distribution Center. Even though I was working, I didn't forget that I needed to go to school. Unfortunately, since I was over 18 and paying my bills my caseworker couldn't help me in that area. I was disappointed but didn't lose hope. I knew that God opened the door to a better life for me, and I would find a way to improve my situation. When I left my foster family struggling with poverty in the camp, I swore to remember them and help when I could. An education meant a salary that would allow me to do as I promised. I knew I would find a way.
That way came from Kiziba. A year later, I received a phone call from my old friend Jean Karambizi. He was now living in Roanoke, Virginia. Hearing his voice and speaking Kinyarwanda, my native language, was like going home. I told him about my life in Charlotte, and everything in my heart. When I asked if he had a chance to go to school, he told me about attending Virginia Western Community College. Jean insisted I come to visit so he could guide me through the application process. I needed to apply and take a placement test to determine if I would be able to study at the college level. I did it and was accepted - I was now a full time college student like everyone else!
When I moved to Roanoke and began my classes, I had help from many people in the community. Jean Karambizi opened his home to me so that he could guide me through this new territory. In addition, I met wonderful teachers and advisors who helped me with the college process. With any question or problem, they were patient and kind. When finances became an issue, I was awarded a scholarship from the Educational Foundation as well as financial aid to assist with tuition. I also work full time at Securitas Incorporated. Thankfully, Mark Shutters, the HR manager, offers employment to everyone regardless of their nationality. He cares about performance and integrity above all else. Because of all of my blessings, I decided to form a multicultural club for international students such as myself. Rick Robbers my advisor at VWCC encouraged me to pursue it. We knew that others needed a support in community college system. Through guest speakers, fellowship, and community service, newcomers are shepherded by those who know what they are going through.
As well as helping those fellow sojourners I am driven to advocate for those still in Kiziba. Through working full time I have been able to send aid to my family. Brothers who would not have the opportunity for education have completed high school and continued onto the local university. It is my desire to do as has been done for me, to help those in need rise above their current situation and become successful. There are currently over 22,000 Congolese refugees still in Kiziba and over 75,000 in Rwanda. They are still waiting.