© UNHCR
Dear chairs,
Honourable members of the European Parliament,
I was only nine years old when my whole world was shattered, and I became a refugee. I was playing on the banks of Lake Tanganyika, near the village we called home.
My brother, Akenga, was fishing nearby, and my sister, Mwali, was washing the dishes in the waters of the lake.
All of a sudden, gunshots ripped through the quiet afternoon. I ran to my siblings, and we hid behind some boulders. But the shots continued.
It was the beginning of the Kivu conflict, which till this day continues to ravage eastern DRC. The armed conflict there has displaced millions of people over the past two decades.
For a while, we hid amidst the rocks, too scared to move. But after a bit, we got up the courage to run home. Everyone else in the village was running in the opposite direction.
They were racing towards the lake, in hopes of escaping on the boats that were normally used to travel from one village to another.
But we needed to find our family. When we got to our house, it was empty. Our parents and twelve other siblings were nowhere to be found. I still remember how alone and scared I felt at that moment.
Without my parents, my 17-year-old brother took charge. He saw we had no choice but to escape along with our neighbours. We ran back to the lake, with nothing more than the clothes on our back, and squeezed onto one of the boats.
The boat headed south. The deep waters of Lake Tanganyika, the world’s longest lake, stretched out infinitely before us. We sailed for days, travelling roughly the distance between Brussels and Geneva.
My brother, my sister, and I disembarked in Zambia. We were reeling from the trauma. We knew no one and had no idea where to go and what to do.
As we were searching for something to eat, a kind truck driver took pity on us and smuggled us across the border to Zimbabwe, where we were eventually given refugee status.
While we were relieved to be in a safe place, we struggled to move forward with our lives. I just wanted to be a regular kid and go to school.
Having lost my home, my parents, and most of my siblings, school was the only place where I could imagine finding hope again.
But scraping together the money for school fees was a huge obstacle. My siblings and I were living in a refugee camp, where we relied on food aid.
My brother was determined to provide us more than our meagre rations. He was also determined to secure us a ticket to a brighter future. He worked tirelessly, toiling all hours at odd jobs outside the camp. He spent all of his earnings on extra food and enrolled my sister and me in school.
In a word, my brother sacrificed his own future to provide us the keys to ours.
Even as a primary schoolboy, I was keenly aware of my brother’s sacrifice. I was determined to do my best and graduated at the top of my class. Despite my brother’s continuous struggles to pay the school fees, I went on to high school and then, to university.
I was really proud of my achievement – and I am especially proud today, at the age of 29, knowing that just six out of every 100 refugees manage to make it to university. By comparison, 40 per cent of non-refugee youth attend university worldwide.
But my family’s financial problems meant that no matter how hard I studied, my academic future was up in the air. After my second year in college, I all but lost hope of being able to complete my degree because we could no longer afford the fees.
At that very dark moment came in the form of a DAFI scholarship, which helps promising refugee students attend university in their host countries.
A similar initiative today has allowed me to continue my studies beyond where I thought possible. Thanks to a unique programme that helps refugees attend university in Italy, I’m now pursuing a Master’s degree in Global Management and Politics at Luiss University in Rome.
But education is not only about getting a degree – particularly for refugees. For us, school offers much more than knowledge. It’s a place to make new friends and heal old wounds. It’s a place to discover hidden talents and forge radiant destinies.
Because I got the chance to study, my own future looks bright: I hope to make the most of what I’ve learned to give back to the communities that welcomed me, and to continue to advocate for others like me.
None of this would have been possible without my brother. His tireless work and tenacity propelled me from a tent in a refugee camp to a university lecture hall.
But it shouldn’t be that way.
No refugee child should depend on blind luck or a guardian angel. All refugee children, wherever they are, should have the opportunity to study.
Just like you, all refugee children deserve the chance to become the best possible versions of themselves.
According to Mandela, education is the most powerful weapon which we can use to change the world.
I thank you.
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