Asylum Access

A Refugee"s Testimony: As Told By Arlette Kitenge

Below is a story by a child of war, genocide and escape. In her own words, Arlette Kitenge shares what it was like growing up when every day was spent wondering if there would be a tomorrow for her and her family.

"We were united under the misery."
— Arlette Kitenge

"I was born in Rwanda to a nice family - the first born of a couple that was educated, full of dreams and ambitions for the future. My dad was the head of marketing for a Switzerland-based company that made construction materials. My mom was in university studying International Law. We had a nice home and a car. We had every reason to hope for a glorious future.

But one morning everything ended. It was April 6, 1994. I did not know too much then. I was only turning 5 years old. People came and destroyed our house, and our belongings were stolen and others destroyed. They were looking for my mom. They wanted to kill her. They shouted, "The cockroach is to be killed!" My dad was beaten and he had to take my sister, who was only a few months old, and me with him. I was told that my mom was dead " that she was killed. Later on I found out she was alive, hiding. It was just a story to make those people stop hunting her down.

In a little while we were homeless, hopeless, and helpless, on a journey to nowhere. We were on the run for what seemed eternal - for days, maybe weeks, but surely months. Days and nights we walked. When I got tired, my dad carried me on his back and my mom carried Axelle, my sister, on her back. I spent many nights on dad"s lap because we had nowhere to sleep. April and May are rainy seasons in Rwanda and soon the hot sun of June and July was going to complete the killings.

I heard my dad telling my mom that we were to go to his country, Congo. I knew dad was from another country but we had never been there before. We could not afford any transportation because all of dad"s money was taken as a ransom for mom. Many times I saw my dad and mom kneeling down, they would raise their hands towards heaven and mumble, "Please God help us." I didn"t hear Axelle crying for many days and I noticed that we had slowed down and she was no longer on my mom"s back. She was being carried in the arms, which delayed our journey. She was dying of pneumonia. I saw my mom crushed emotionally. She did not sleep for days and nights. She would stare at Axelle mumbling words that I didn"t understand. It happened that we had arrived to another province called "Gitarama." I don"t know how long we had been walking, but it seemed like a long journey.

There, mom wasn"t in hiding as much, but she didn"t show herself in public either. Dad took Axelle to a small clinic. I remember how funny it was to see dad carrying Axelle on his back. In Rwanda, men never carry babies on their backs. I guess the clinic did not help much because I could read in their expressions a kind of disappointment. Mom and dad would cry throughout the night, and, in the morning, I would find mom in the same position I left her in. I wondered how long she had been on her knees and how she managed to stay on them. I will always remember my mother crying out, "Oh God! Please not now!" She would stare at Axelle and sob like a baby. Mom would talk to dad in another language that I didn"t know then, dad would light a lamp torch and they would check on Axelle. Dad would beg mom to go to sleep because he was worried about her health - she didn"t eat, drink, or sleep. Instead, she cried all the time.

Something went wrong in the place we were staying at, all the people started to run away. We couldn"t run because Axelle was sick. We stayed for few days, she got better and we were on the road again. There was a public bus that was taking people for free, so my dad went to ask if they would take us. When we were about to enter the driver was unhappy because of my mom. Dad begged the driver in the local language which he didn"t know well. My dad spoke only French and Swahili but he was able to convince the driver to let mom on the bus. They took us but the passengers were unhappy. They would address harsh words to mom with an evil look. I knew that we were not safe. Everywhere we went, mom was treated like a criminal. She didn"t talk much and walked face down like a criminal. I asked dad what has she done. Dad said she has done nothing. I could not believe him. Surely mom had done something bad because everybody was not happy with her.

When we arrived at a barrier, the bus stopped. I had trouble sleeping because the noises were too loud. I woke up when we were asked get off. Dad spoke to the bus driver, asking if mom could stay and hide in the bus but the driver shook his head, saying no! When we reached the ground, all passengers were shouting, pointing to my mom. There were men with all kinds of sticks, guns and whistles. They took my mom and I and were saying loudly that we were "Tutsi." I told them that we are not "Tutsi" but we are Christian. I guess they didn"t believe me. Out there, there were many people, men and women and even kids my age and under. They were bleeding while sleeping because they were not moving. Mom grabbed me and hid my face in her chest, preventing me from seeing what was going on around us. But I knew then that these people were beaten because they were "Tutsi" (a word I then associated with bad people). I knew that my mom had done nothing bad, therefore she wasn"t "Tutsi." I kept shouting, "We are not Tutsi! We are Christian!" I saw dad behind us on his knees begging pardon like a crazy man. One man in a military uniform noticed dad"s accent and managed to speak with him in French. After a few minutes, he took us back on the bus. People were more evil than ever before. Mom didn"t cry or say anything. She didn"t even raise her face. When we sat down on the bus, dad asked the driver if mom could drink some of his water because mom was about to faint. Her mouth was dry, on the verge of passing out and saying nothing except nodding yes or no. I heard dad say that mom was losing blood, too much blood. I didn"t know why mom was losing blood and I didn"t see any blood on her but later on I found out that mom had been bleeding since the birth of Axelle, and with all the walking and emotional strain, her health got worse day by day.

Dad was able to provide a banana every time I was hungry. I didn"t know how he knew that I was hungry nor how he got the bananas, but even before I could say anything he would give me a banana. Once dad asked mom to eat a banana. She tried to open her mouth but her lips were too dry and started to bleed. But even in her condition, she found the strength to still carry Axelle.

There were too many places we had to stop and get out of the bus. Dad and the driver would plead with the men with weapons on behalf of mom, but somehow we reached the border of Rwanda and Congo. We went through the immigration process on the other side and the people were caring and loving. Dad spoke another language with them, a language that I had never heard before. They rushed mom and Axelle to the hospital and were hospitalized for days. I guess mom was really sick too. We went to live with dad"s nephews. Dad and mom had been sending them money to support their studies. They were in a university and they were about mom"s age. Mom was young too.

We lived in one room, which served as the kitchen, living room, and shower, and, at night, a bedroom. We lived in that situation for quite a while and I was able to go back to school. After some time, the same people we left at the border – the people who wanted to kill mom - crossed over too. There were too many of them. The whole town was full of them. They were called refugees but I knew them. They were the same people – the killers – from Rwanda. Dad started to help them. He was working with an organization which helped refugees. I often wondered: when we were suffering, no one came to help us - no organization came. But for these people, there was an organization to help them. And how in the world could dad help such evil people who time after time wanted to kill mom? It didn"t take long before the same people dad was helping went to kill him. They accused him of being a spy. I remember UN security brought dad home half-naked and almost dead. He was bleeding from the chest, and his mouth was filled with blood. It was a night that I would never forget. Things did not make any sense. In mom"s country, mom was a Tutsi (bad) and now dad was being a Tutsi in his own country!

After that, dad was offered a job with another organization. I believe he was being paid well, because we could afford a good life. We had a nice house and car, and mom went back to school. Axelle was grown and we had a lady who took care of us, named Bea. Mom also got a job, working with a United States non-profit organization. The white people loved her so much. She would drive their cars and they would spend time with us. They really loved us. For once, life was fair after all we had gone through. My parents had another child, Anita. We were three sisters and happy. Many refugees were no longer in town, perhaps sent back to their country. Though there were some rumors that refugees were taken out of town to reduce the mess (man, they made a mess!) and that they were getting out and doing bad things to the population around. But there was also another war approaching. I heard that another president was trying to takeover and this new president had a lot to do with the refugees and the Tutsi.

It started again. They began to hunt the Tutsi including my mom. Many times she was taken to jail and dad had to pay money for her to be released. In a short while, all the organizations were shut down. All the white people were sent back to their countries and we were once again alone and jobless. The war began and there were constant sounds of guns and other big machines. Bullets were flying everywhere. The electricity was cut off. We lived in the dark, out of running water. Scared, we hid under beds. There would be fighting the whole night and, in the daytime, the rebels would go house by house looking for the Tutsi people. They would kill some and send some across the border. Dad went to ask a family friend if they could hide mom there but they said no! They could not afford to see mom killed before their eyes.

I noticed that mom could not fit under the bed because she was pregnant with my youngest sister so we kept her in the bathtub. But this time, she seemed to be more concerned and fearful than ever before - maybe because we were now a big family and there were so many of us to take care of. One day, the rebels couldn"t find mom so they took dad instead. I was scared because if dad didn"t come back and if mom was killed, I would be left alone with two sisters. The lady who was taking care of us didn"t speak French and I had almost forgotten the Rwandan language, so there was not much talk between her and me. What did I know anyway, I was a kid! Mom would disappear and come back. And dad finally came back. I knew that he was beaten because his face was swollen and his nephew would come time to time to give him massages on his back. Later on, I knew that mom had been hiding somewhere in the house or in the back yard.

Next thing I knew we were on the run again, leaving everything behind including Bea. This time dad was carrying Anita and holding Axelle by the hand. I was always with my mom who was pregnant. She moved slowly and painfully. First we got in a truck, but the roads were very bad - too much ups and downs. Worried about mom and her pregnancy, we got out and boarded a big, huge bus. It was very comfortable. I guess dad had some money. That bus was nothing I had ever seen before. The trip took forever. We slept and woke up and slept again. Mom slept quietly, but a couple of times I could hear her sigh and mumble a few words to herself. The journey was from early in the morning to sunset. Finally the bus stopped and we were all instructed to get off and show our passports. My mind rushed through memories that I had tried so much to forget. I found myself remembering the same scene when mom and I were taken off the bus because we were Tutsi. I panicked. My two sisters were sleeping so I had to stay and watch them while everyone else was out with their passports.

The people were lined up and one after another, they were checked then came back on the bus. Before getting off the bus, dad told me to not worry and that we had arrived at the border. I asked about my passport and he told me not to worry about it either. A man in normal attire came aboard perhaps to check if anyone was hiding. When he found us, I was shaking with fear. But he was a nice man. Perhaps he was a father too. He spoke in another language that I had never heard of before, but he wasn"t harsh nor angry. He was calm. I knew that we were okay. Almost everyone came back except dad and mom. The driver apologized and moved the bus across the border, but because I couldn"t understand the language, I thought that we were leaving mom and dad. I shouted "Wait for my mom and dad!" in French but the driver kept going. So I stood up and kept shouting until someone in the back explained to me in broken French that we must move across and wait for them. I was only a little relieved. It was still hard to trust strangers. After about 10-15 minutes, to my relief, my parents returned and Axelle and Anita were awakened by the noise of people moving around the bus and my shouting.

Mom took her place beside me. When I saw she was all right, I asked her how in the world could she forget to buy me a passport. She smiled and handed me a little book. I opened it and on the first page was mom"s picture and some writings. After a few pages, I found my picture and my sisters" pictures in that little booklet. Mom told me that we are using the same passport but dad had his own separate one with his own picture, alone maybe because he is a man. We reached the destination in the evening. The town was big like I imagined, and where we came from, the town was too small. Everybody knew everybody. People were always in other people"s business. But there, life was busy. People were running up and down and hardly stopped to talk to another person. Dad told us that we were in Kampala, Uganda. There were buildings and houses everywhere. Cars were lined up and so were bicycles and motorcycles. It was crazy! We spent a couple of days in a motel and I was happy listening to mom and dad"s plans to send mom and us kids to Europe so that the baby might not be born in that place.

Dad planned everything right. In a few days we were on a plane going to a country in Europe. I don"t know how long we were on the plane because it was nighttime and we were sleeping, but we landed at a huge airport with big lights and people running back and forth. We were to transit from one plane to the other. When the time came to get on the next plane, the checkpoint workers took mom"s passport aside and everyone else went through except us. Mom was in shock. We spent the night in the airport and the next morning they sent us back to Kampala. Mom told me dad was scammed and given fake visas. This is common in Uganda. Dad was about to faint when he saw us back. All the money he had was gone and mom"s passport was held at the embassy. We were back at the beginning.

We survived in that chaos for two years and many events unfolded during that time. Arrielle was born the last in the family. I was grown too, having three siblings made me more responsible. I helped mom around the house and anything else that needed to be done. We were united under the misery. Among the things I remember about our stay in Uganda is how I was sent back in kindergarten when I was already nine years old. The place we lived in had no access to an elementary school. The closest elementary school was far away - about an hour of walking - and dad and mom were scared about the many kidnappings in the area. We were also living in an attitude of waiting, believing that one day we would leave and live somewhere else. I attended the school and almost spent a year with five-year-olds. I learned nothing except counting to ten in a language that seemed to be English but with a heavy accent from their local dialect. In Uganda, they speak many different local languages. We didn"t know which one to learn but mom knew some English and encouraged us to learn English also.

One day, mom learned that there was a white woman helping refugees in Uganda. Mom went to see her to seek help, and when she returned home, I knew something changed. This woman, Ms. Barbara Harrell-Bond – Asylum Access" Board President " would help us leave Uganda.

Two days after we arrived in the USA, I turned ten years old. We lived in a church"s apartment. So many kids from church came to celebrate my birthday with lots of gifts and love. It was the best birthday I had had in a while. I was sent back to school and they put me in fifth grade because I was ten years old. The last time I was in a real school grade was in Congo, but we left when I was about to move to the third grade. So I skipped third and fourth grades and was put in fifth grade with other American kids. I had difficulty in reading and writing English and math was my most difficult subject. I had no basic skills and worst of all everything was in English. When I went home, dad would help me with math but since he didn"t know any English he taught me in French, which didn"t help much. Mom was always a cheerleader. She motivated us to make it every day. "Math is math in every language," she would say. And since English is now our only language, there was no way to complain when mom is there.

My sisters seemed to be fitting in with no problems. Axelle was about to turn six years old, Anita was three and a half years old and Arrielle was one year old and few months. Mom told me that success is a choice and a commitment. I saw mom and dad doing everything to accommodate us in our new life. They worked hard. They did the kind of jobs they couldn"t do if we were in our country. After months of real struggles, dad got a good job. He was working in a big company with a nice office, but mom couldn"t hold a day shift job. She was always concerned about our safety, so she taught in churches and spoke in schools on the side, but held a night shift job until Arrielle was ready to go to school. Dad kept his job for about six years. Meanwhile, mom kept speaking and teaching in churches, which were the only things that made her happy and confident. Mom and dad always say that America is like an ocean, and when you fall in it, you have to do everything to survive. Also that America is like a market, you can find everything but you must know what you need and go for it.

Success is a choice and a commitment. I have always remembered that. I chose to succeed and I committed myself to go for it. Dad told us that failure has no room in our house, so we all make A"s and B"s. There are no other options. Mom went back to school to get her masters. If she can do it after all the things she does, I believe I can make it too. Now in high school I see many young people making wrong choices. They mess up their lives not knowing how many people would love to have the opportunities that they are throwing away. I see kids having food fights in school cafeterias, not realizing that there are thousands of kids in my country who would love to have that amount of food in a month. But all these experiences that I see and go through only help shape me. I never went in third or fourth grade, which made it hard because I never learned my multiplication and my vocabulary and writing was very poor. But that didn"t stop me. It actually encouraged me to work hard. Now I am about to enter my senior year in high school and start applying for colleges. I make "As" and "Bs" on my report cards and I"m in the honors program."