Refugee in the land of the Free

Shelta, Mama and me

My life as a refugee has been one of growth and attempts of understanding. As I grow, I began to understand my place in America. However, before doing so I went to “Shelta” a refugee camp for families that arrived in America in with false papers or expired visas. In this time I saw a great warrior woman, my mother submit which I had never seen before. In this time I also gained the greatest piece of Wisdom “the fight for success was within the mind not the our sun kissed fists”, this is something will always echo in my spirit.

“So many paved roads, we end up here”, remarked Francoise as she stared with her glossy eyes down into her daughter’s eyes. She never wanted Magalie to see her tears. Magalie always wondered why the roads had lead her there, it always seemed as though God never listened. Magalie clasped harder unto her mother’s hand because that was the only thing she knew how to do.“Shelta “, they would want them to call it, this was not a place to keep you safe, Magalie could see that. Everyone seemed nervous, fidgety almost and most people had the same glossy eyes as Francoise did. They always spoke about never going back to the grounds. Francoise would always remind Magalie about their grounds; she wanted her daughter to never forget. In their grounds, girls like Magalie laid underground. The Congolese Civil war had taken everyone born after 1984 out of the Kalukula family either in a casket or in a plane. The elders of the Kalukula stayed put that was the only thing they knew how to do.

Soon Francoise realized this was the place they waited to find out if they would end up back in Congolese grounds, or be allowed into America as people, we weren’t here illegally; not intruders. The shelter staff would joke with the kids and call them little aliens. One African American woman said “I’m only scared of the diseases, I say send them all back”. Magalie responded by asking her if she would be coming back with the Africans if they sent them all back. Magalie was put in seclusion, it was called room detention; for disrespectful conduct. Francoise watched as they grabbed her daughter and threw into this small room.

This wasn’t Magalie’s but Francoise’s breaking point. She wondered how this could be the land of the free. She didn’t eat or sleep but she prayed. Now, it seemed to her as though God never listened. She suddenly stopped and sat by the door Magalie was being held in for the rest of her seclusion time. During this time Magalie gained the same gloss in her eyes as everyone else did; she grew up. She didn’t want to be in America anymore, she figured in America people lived without reason. She would rather die with her people than from them for no reason. She asked Francoise if they could go home.

The Congo/Rwandan Civil War has been happening for decades, but I dare to only mention it once, because I fear it. Every bomb, lead to us taking shelter. Every rebel group that entered town lead to the loss of young men in my family; not by death but by their being lured into the war. Visiting family in a village right outside Uvira, I saw more dead bodies than most people see in a lifetime. At a young age, I was ashamed of my country. I was ready to leave Congo and become part of something else, even if it meant going through a tribulation.

Entering Philadelphia, my mom told me we were home. I thought life in America was like Shelter, but it was very different. We were released from Shelter and we lived with the Catholic workers who helped us get a place to live, and helped my mother get a job. I attended private school and had a maid as a mother. I learned how to interact with two different types of people the givers and the receivers. And although I like to distance myself from it, my past formed me into this being that is a reflection of all Francoise’s life. All she ever wanted to be was a giver to her child. My story is as follows: my father’s seed, my mother’s womb, my mother’s life, and now the life I could give her.

�,: