Bushiri: The Strongest Man I know

I got the privilege to know Bushiri through the Adult Learning Center in Charlottesville where I volunteer, and have been working with him one-on-one for about a year to help him finish his GED.  He’s passed 3 of the 4 subject area tests with only Language Arts remaining.  I don’t know a harder-working, more resilient, kinder soul.  

Please read his story and share it with others.  As people speak derisively about refugees, reflect on Bushiri and ask yourself if we benefit as a country by taking in fewer people like him.

-- George

A Difficult Journey

My name is Bushiri Sulumu.  I was born in North Kivu in the Democratic Republic of Congo on February 28, 1990.  My father was a Doctor and my mother a teacher, but we were not rich.  I came to the US as a refugee 5 years ago.   I am grateful to have the opportunity to start my life over because where I come from life is very hard.

Do you know anything about the Democratic Republic of Congo? You may know Congo for its richness in minerals. Because of these minerals, and the poverty of our people, our country has been exploited by others for hundreds of years.  The battle for our resources from powerful outsiders means my people remain poor and life is not safe there.

When I was seven years old, I saw war for the first time. Armed militias came to Eastern Congo to fight the government. During the war, our families were constantly scared for our safety. We would run into the bush to hide and return to our homes when it was peaceful again. Sometimes we would have to hide in the bush for several weeks, terrified and without enough food.

When we were hiding, it was difficult to find even the most basic things we needed to live. If we were lucky, we would find some mushrooms or some wild fruits or cassava to eat. There were a few times we had corn flour and some firewood. Although we had some pots which we could have used to cook our food, we did not have any way to light our firewood. We ended up eating corn flour just by itself, so at least we had something in our stomachs. Most days, we weren’t so lucky and we would sleep with only water in our bellies.  There were times we were so hungry we just ate mud. Some people died due to insufficient food and water.

It was even hard to sleep. We slept under trees, beside the river. Sometimes, we would sleep in the trees so we were safe from hungry wild animals and venomous snakes. Life was constantly interrupted by the threat of violence. I saw innocent people killed and other painful sights of war every day.  

The war became even worse in 2007, the year I try my hardest to forget. My world changed completely on a rainy Wednesday in August. Like many people with large families my father built two houses on the same property. My father, mother and some of my brothers and sisters slept in the first house, and the rest of my family slept in the second house. One seemingly normal night, we were sleeping in the house while staying alert for any danger. Just like we did every night, we were looking outside and keeping our ears open so we wouldn’t get left behind if the militia groups and the military started fighting.

This night though, all our fears came true. We heard gunshots in the darkness. The fight intensified, and we heard explosions in the distance. Suddenly, the explosions were in our backyard.  I heard an explosion, and for a second I didn’t know where I was. I thought I was dead. I tried to move the fingers on my right hand. They wiggled a little bit. I asked myself “Am I dead, or am I dreaming?” I kept saying to myself that “since I can move my fingers, I must not be dead.” But if I was not dead, then where was I?

I desperately tried to get my bearings and figure out what was going on. It was very dark, and when I tried to get up I was not able to do so. I felt like I was being crushed. I couldn’t get out, but after a while I started hearing people’s voices. Those voices kept approaching until I heard people talking right next to me. I heard them saying that there might still be other people here. They started to remove the debris that covered me.

When they got me out I saw debris all over the yard and I couldn’t tell what happened. When I looked around, I saw many people crying. I was still confused. I asked them why they were crying and they screamed, “Our neighbors and family members are dead!” It didn’t seem real. I asked them “Who are you talking about?” They said, “Your Dad, mother and some of your sisters and brothers. They said the bomb had hit your father’s house” that where I start realizing that the debris I saw around me was the remains of our houses.

On that day, I lost my parents, six brothers and sisters, and everything I had. I didn’t really feel the loss at first because I was still so badly hurt. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins. A neighbor took me to his house for first aid. A couple weeks later after recovering from my injuries, I started feeling a little better physically. However, as soon as the physical pain subsided, a much worse pain took over. That was when I started to feel the pain of losing so many members of my family. I had never felt so alone in my entire life. I could feel their absence everywhere. I can tell you that was when I saw the devil with my own eyes.

To me this was the end of my world and the beginning of a long nightmare in my life. All I had left was my 15 year-old sister, my 13 year-old brother and the dream of following in my father’s footsteps and becoming a doctor. In one instant we became orphans. I remember a day when I was watching a news report about the suffering of abandoned children. I couldn’t stop crying, because I knew from now on this would be our life. I started asking people for food and sometimes people who knew my Dad would come and give us some money or something to eat. Most times however, we slept in abandoned houses. I became stressed, and had awful insomnia. I realized that my brain was not working as it used to work before, because I started forgetting things more often than before. The reality of the situation began to hit me. At this point I saw my dreams slipping away.

I remembered my parents telling us that they came from Maniema province, west of Kivu. My dad told us that as soon as he married my Mom, they decided to move far away from their family members to another province for better economic opportunities. Because of the bad condition of roads, and no good way to make a long-distance journey my parents never took us to visit their parents or family members. My first thought was that we should walk toward the direction of that province.  After talking to a few people I was told that we wouldn’t reach there because the militia groups were camping in that road.  I never had met my parents’ families, and it seems I never will.

We were therefore stuck in North Kivu when the militias came again, and captured government military as well as civilians. My siblings and I were among those civilians who were captured. Female captives were taken to a separate place, and I thought I would never see my sister again.  My brother and I witnessed the mass killing of civilians. Before they killed someone, they would say to them, “Right now you are very close to God, so don’t forget to say ‘hi’ to him.” They would then kill them. I saw so many of my friends decapitated and shot that it became normal to me. I was sure I wouldn’t survive. Thankfully, since my brother and I were still young they didn’t see us big threats so they just beat us, in my case to the point that I could barely walk.

A couple days later we escaped from the place we were being held. We started walking south with no destination in mind.  We were probably 50 or 100 miles south of our village camped in the bush when a miracle happened.

A week after my brother and I escaped we heard another group approaching.  Usually we tried to avoid other people because they might be with the militias.  This time for some reason we watched them approach.  It was a group of women from our village.  We were shocked and so happy that my sister was in that group!

After a time they explained to us what happened them after they were separated; this was a horrific story to hear. The rebels saw no difference between a 15-year-old girl and a grown woman.  As terrible as it was we were so happy and thankful that they were alive and with us.

We decided to get farther away from the fighting and continued to move south.  We moved from place to place trying to find food and safety.  After a few months we had travelled about 200 miles, but I could go no farther.  The beating I took at hands of my captors caused internal injuries and I had to have surgery. Even today, I can still feel the effects because the surgery was done by people who were not well trained. They were not surgeons, they were just regular nurses. I am grateful for these people who helped me when I needed it most.  They did their best. 

During this time it became obvious some of the women and girls had become pregnant as a result of what took place during their captivity, though thankfully not my sister.

I decided my brother and sister and I had to leave our country because the conflicts continued to spread and nowhere seemed safe. After all I had seen, I just wanted to live in peace and find a better life.  That was the beginning of a thousand-mile trek south to Zambia.

 

We walked for months and slept under trees, uncertain if we would live to see the morning.  Every night we would all pray for each other, never really resting even in our sleep. You cannot imagine how difficult things were, and how hard it was to find food or even just survive.

When we came close to Zambian border, we met some people who were talking about a refugee camp. This gave many people hope that maybe things could get better. I knew that life in a refugee camp wouldn’t be much better than how we were already living, but there was no other choice. Soon after, we crossed the border and turned ourselves over to the Zambian immigration officers who allowed us to live in the camp.

The camp had more than twenty-seven thousand people, and nowhere near enough food to go around. We were given corn and beans, but our rations rarely lasted even half the time they were meant for. There were only three mills in the camp for all twenty-seven thousand refugees, so grinding the corn to make bread was almost impossible. The lines to use the mills were weeks long. Supply trucks from South Africa regularly got lost or stuck in the mud, leaving us hungry. Weeks would pass without food, and we didn’t even have permission to leave the camp without a gate pass, which was very difficult to get.

In the camp, children that had families could attend school while their parents tried to get food.  Because I was the oldest I had to get food for my siblings and myself, so I couldn’t go to school.

Every day, I found myself desperately missing my parents. The loneliness, the hardship I endured, and watching my dream of becoming a doctor slipping in front of my eyes wore away at me every day. I will never forget that hardship. I would ask every day “Why was I chosen to suffer so much?” I was even asking myself what I’d done wrong in my life to deserve so much pain. Sometimes I felt like it was better to die. Life was truly awful, and I didn’t even have hope that it would improve to the point where it was “just bad”. I just wanted to go to school and have peace of mind. I wanted to move on with life, but I could not. I kept thinking about how my parents were innocent, and how much evil exists in this world.

My sister got married in the refugee camp.  I worried that being married, she would no longer be classified as an “orphan” and that that might make it harder for her to be placed as a refugee in a new country.  But we were among the lucky ones nevertheless.

After four and half years in Zambia, my siblings and I got selected for resettlement to the United States as refugees. We came directly to Charlottesville from Zambia. It is not easy for a new comer to find a permanent job, and I struggled even more because I had no experience whosoever. After a while I got a permanent job at University of Virginia cleaning floors.  It is hard work for a small man, but I am grateful to have it.  My brother got a permanent job as a truck driver and they provided training to him. My sister lives here in Charlottesville with her husband.  I have almost finished my GED and have applied for citizenship.  Here, I’m trying to rebuild my life and finish my education.  Medical School may be too much to hope for, but I hope nursing school will be possible.

This is my story where I will write about my past and present, though I do not know what the future will hold. There is one piece of advice I would like to offer; no matter how hard your life seems, there are many more people who are suffering worse than you. So keep fighting, never give up, set a goal, be optimistic, and don’t be lazy. Go out there and try the best you can because you never know where the blessings may come from. Like they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Most importantly, do not lose hope. Sometimes the hardship can turn into a stepping stone for your success.