UGANDA: When Ebola Fear Turned Into Refugee Stigma

After nearly sixteen years seeking asylum in Uganda, Amina watched Ebola fear turn into public shame, social rejection, and cruelty toward her children. Her story is a plea to be seen not as a threat, but as a human being.

“We are human beings, just like everyone else. Accept us without conditions.”

I am a Congolese refugee living in Kampala, Uganda. I fled my country, the Democratic Republic of Congo, in 2010. I come from Goma, in North Kivu. I have been an asylum seeker for almost sixteen years, which would almost make me a citizen.

Because of the recent outbreak of Ebola, every Congolese person is being treated as if we are the disease itself.

Recently, I was walking home from a nearby market when I met a long-time neighbor who used to be my friend. With the happiness and joy of meeting her after so long, I wanted to hug her, but she pulled herself backward with a clear look of No, do not. I felt bad and puzzled.

She looked straight into my eyes and asked, "Are you not aware of the Ebola outbreak?"

I said I had forgotten, but we had not had any cases so far. Then I added, “Anyway, how are you? Long time.”

She ignored my questions and told me that the Congolese are the source of Ebola, that we overeat to the point of eating monkeys that carried the virus.

I smiled, but I felt belittled, because we were on the roadside and people were passing by. Others overheard and turned their heads to look at the Congolese woman.

Taking precautions was wise of her, and I would credit her for that, but the words that came with them were harsh and unfair. Nothing called for that. My joy had come from meeting an old friend, and she turned it into embarrassment.

I smiled, trying to cover it up by asking things like, "I hope your son is grown up now?" which she never answered. Instead, she went on to say that without the Congolese, Uganda would never suffer from Ebola, and that if she were in power, she would suggest deporting the Congolese back to their countries. She added that Ebola was contracted from a monkey, and God knows what would be contracted from cats.

My face dimmed. I wanted the conversation to end, because she was not the friend I knew.

Finally, I asked her, "Do you have a problem with me, or with Ebola? I have never gone back to Congo. Why are you bringing all this up? I am sorry if I offended you. It was out of happiness, I didn't mean to harm you."

Yes, I am Congolese, but I have never tasted monkey or cat. Not all Congolese eat them, and in all the time we spent together, she never once saw me eat such things. I was ashamed, but I collected myself and began to move on.

Another moment stayed with me. There was an old woman roasting plantain at the roadside, a woman selling boiled maize, and two men standing near the plantain seller. They all turned and looked at me, because they had been following the conversation. Her voice had been loud. The old woman said in Luganda, "amuswaziza bambi, sikyelungi," meaning, "She has shamed her, and that is not good."

I am a tenant in a compound of six houses that house six families. We share a small compound that serves as a playground for all the children. They gather in groups by age and sex; the boys mostly prefer football.

Recently, I noticed that my children were avoiding going outside, which was unusual, because before, I could always find them out there whenever I needed them. One day, I was doing general cleaning and asked them to go out and play so I could clean properly. My second-to-youngest, who just turned seven, told me they were chased away and not allowed to play, because they were "going to spread Ebola" to the other children.

I felt so bad that my legs were shaking. I had to sit down and ask them properly. That is when I learned they had been beaten and chased away, accused of spreading Ebola simply because they are from Congo. The painful part was that it was their parents who told them to do it.

Just imagine children being taught to point at other children as if they are dangerous. The children being avoided have never even seen Congo. They were born here in Kampala, Uganda. I arrived with my seventeen-year-old son when he was only eight months old. The rest of my children were all born here in Kampala.

This is not the first time I have seen our name turned against us. Once, a refugee woman came to me for advice, and while we were together, her son was knocked down by a motorcycle. We rushed to the roadside. A crowd had gathered, and they made the rider take the boy to the hospital. He agreed easily enough. But the moment he learned we were Congolese, he hesitated.

At the hospital, before he could be billed, he tried to run. He said the Congolese could not make him pay in his own country, and he begged the gateman to let him go because they were of the same tribe. No one else was there to stop him, so I did. He threw blows at me. I had been trying so hard to avoid a fight, but I defended myself until help came.

It shows in smaller ways, too. Once, someone stole cassava leaves from a neighbor, and we were falsely accused, for no reason other than being Congolese. There was even a time I stood up to speak in a community meeting about our own well-being, and I was denied the chance simply because I am Congolese.

I remember a time my son asked me, "Why are we Congolese? Is it possible to change to another tribe?"

That question has stayed with me.

All in all, as refugees, we carry unhealed wounds from being displaced from our homes, torn from our loved ones, and betrayed by the very people we consider our own. What could ease this trauma is affection and acceptance, but when we receive the opposite, it wears down our mental health. I would not wish this path on anyone, not even my worst enemy. It is an open wound that hurts at every turn of life; the nightmare never stops.

To those who treat us as outsiders, this pain has become too much. When will you accept us as your brothers and sisters? We have lived among you, hoping to be accepted. My children speak better Luganda than our own Swahili. We are human beings, just like everyone else. Yes, we have our faults, just like others. The path of a refugee is full of trauma. Accept us without conditions. Our children matter as much as any other children. We have feelings, too.

What we have been through cannot be undone. All we ask is that you treat us with kindness and dignity.

To everyone in countries that host refugees, welcome us as neighbors and not as headlines. Do not repeat what you have not confirmed. Do not turn fear into shame.

If you are a parent, do not teach your children to fear ours. When children are taught to reject other children, that fear follows them for the rest of their lives, so let our children play together.

And if you belong to an organization, donor group, or community program that supports grassroots work, remember refugee women. Many of us are already helping one another find housing, schools, registration support, and safety, often with no funding at all. A little support can help us protect families who have already lost so much.

No one chooses to be a refugee. The life we knew was taken from us, and we carry that loss every day. Help us feel, even a little, that we still have a place to call home.

STORY AWARDS

This story was published as part of World Pulse's Story Awards program, under Behind the Headlines. We believe every woman has a story to share, and that the world will be a better place when women are heard.