Thank you for sharing this powerful story with us. Could you tell us about what inspired you to write it? My story is called “Suffering.” My father’s name is Shika Demzungu and my mother’s name is Jeanne Kiza. I chose to tell this story so that I can teach people, through my life history, that in this world many fathers and even mothers leave their families in different situations. They should take care of their families. I also want to show how a person can do something to change their lives even if they think they don’t have the means. What messages do you hope your readers will take away from your story? The message I want my readers to take is that when you leave your family alone without care they will suffer. I want people to know they shouldn’t give up because in life it’s either up or down and God is always there no matter the situation or circumstances. What, from your perspective, is the point of storytelling? Why do we tell stories, what do they do for us, and what purpose do they serve? Stories are shared to teach us and guide us toward the right path. I used my story to narrate the difficult circumstances I’ve encountered and to inspire the people around me with how I’ve navigated those situations. Did your story change over the course of your participation in the storytelling workshops? How? I was advised to edit some points in my story but the core of my story never changed. The process of how my story evolved and the guidance I received was inspiring and I’m happy with the final result. My story evolved through the editorial process and the clarification of various points in the narrative. How does your story offer an alternative path, point of view, or way forward? How does it speak to the possibility of an otherwise? My story offers an alternative path because it guides people towards taking their own responsibility whatever their situation. In my culture they always say that if you forget yourself you’ll stink and that’s the advice I would like my readers to learn.
refugee
Suffering, by Charles Shika Safina
In 2009, I lived with my family in a village called Baraka in Congo. We were a family of five: my father, my mother, and my two younger brothers, Omari and Eddy. My father did not take care of the family. Instead, we depended on my mother to do odd jobs or farm so that we could eat and have clothes. My father loved a life of leisure and was a drunkard. He never left any money for our needs. One day, my mother went out to look for work but returned with nothing. We went to bed horribly hungry, without eating anything at all. While we were sleeping, my father returned home. He started banging on the door violently, demanding to be let in. My mother got up and went to open the door for him. He shouted, demanding food. When she told him there was none, he insulted and beat her. He yelled. He threatened to leave us. I felt horrible seeing my mother like this. When morning came, my father left. We had no idea where he went. Soon after, my mother became very ill, sick from the beating she had received from my father. There was no one to help us. I had to start looking for money for food and my mother’s recovery. The day I set out in search of work, I was turned away because I was still young, but I didn’t give up. My family’s suffering gave me the strength to keep searching. God helped me, and soon after I found someone who hired me to farm for them. They paid me very little, but it was enough to buy some sugar so that my siblings could drink porridge. My younger siblings stopped going to school because there was no money for school fees. I felt like the world was collapsing on me. When I walked by, people would laugh at me because of my tattered clothes. I walked through the streets begging for help. Some people gave me assistance, but others insulted me or called me a thief because of how I looked. I became like an orphan, even though I had a father and a mother. When my clothes tore, I would take some sack string and a knife, and I would cut and sew them back together with the string. Many nights, I would stay up crying. The days passed. We continued to suffer. One night, seven months after my father beat her, my mother’s condition worsened. That very night, we rushed her to the hospital. When we arrived, the doctors told us that we needed to pay for her treatment. She also had many thoughts about how we would survive, because she was not well. These thoughts eventually led her to have a heart attack. My heart ached deeply. I was overwhelmed by the suffering we were enduring. I felt I had no other options. I made up my mind to try stealing. Walking through the market a few days later, I saw a man holding money in his hand, and he had left some on the seat of his car, which he hadn’t properly locked. My mind tempted me to take the money that was in the car. This was my chance! But my heart resisted. I went back and forth. I thought about where I could possibly get the money to pay for my mother’s treatment. I was stuck. I needed to save her. I decided to take it. Just as I was reaching through the car window to take the money, I heard people shouting, “Thief!” I panicked and dropped the money. I ran. When I was running I fell, and when I fell they caught me. Then they started beating me. I begged for forgiveness. I pleaded “I am not a thief. Please forgive me. Please let me go.” The man whose money I had tried to take came and told the angry crowd to leave me alone. He looked me in the eye and spoke to me. I felt immense relief when I heard him call me “my child,” and I cried tears of joy. He told me, “I will help pay for your mother’s hospital treatment, and I will pay for your siblings’ education, but under one condition.” “What is the condition?” I asked. He replied, “I want you all to be like my children because I have no child, and my wife passed away.” I felt like God had sent me an angel. I thanked him profusely and accepted his offer. I was so happy. * One night, when my mother was home from the hospital and we were sitting together, just the two of us, I told her that there were things I wanted to know more about. She asked me, “What are the things you want to know?” I told her that I wanted to understand what suffering is and what happiness is as well. My mother told me that just as I had once experienced, suffering can push you to do things you never expected to do. My mother explained, “Sometimes, God can give you suffering so that you learn a certain lesson. Suffering is something you can never get used to.” She continued, “but it is important to thank God for everything and fight through our problems, only then will we find happiness.” After sharing her thoughts that evening, my mother told me she was ready to go to sleep. I told her, “But I am still not satisfied, mother.” Then she said, “Before I go to sleep, let me give you one last piece of advice. You can never have peace or happiness if you are not satisfied. Peace and contentment in your soul will give you lasting happiness.” I found peace in the depths of my suffering and in the love I have for my mother. This story was peer reviewed by: Georgia Marshall
Friendship and Poverty, by Blandine Mulenga
I was sitting at home with my mother one Friday morning when my phone rang. “Blandine, can you come over? I want to talk to you,” said the voice on the other end of the line. It was my friend Sarah. I was finished with my chores and my mother gave me permission to go. Sarah lives in Kashojwa, near Best Future School. We live in different areas of Nakivale Refugee Settlement in Uganda. As I made my way down the path I met my father. I told him I was going to visit Sarah and he gave me two thousand Ugandan shillings to take the boda-boda. When I reached Sarah’s house, I found her mother washing clothes. She was wearing a black dress. When I arrived, I knocked on the door and tried to greet her, but she ignored me. Instead, she asked me, “What do you want?” without looking in my direction. I told her, “I’m here to see my Sarah.” “Your friend Sarah is my daughter?” she asked. I said yes. Instead of going to get Sarah, she told me, “I do not want to see you with my daughter.” When I asked her why, she simply said, “because your family is poor.” After hearing her words, I called Sarah. She was around the corner, dressed in a black skirt and red t-shirt. When I told her what her mother said, Sarah told me, “I know you respect elders. But my mother is sad now and does not think much.” I said, “Sarah, when a person says things that she has never talked about, she is only looking for a way so that she may talk. Let us do what your mother said. She does not want to see us together because I am from a poor family. Let us leave our friendship because we need to do what your mother wants. Let us not force it.” Sarah and I agreed to respect her mother’s wish to not see us together. But I went home unhappy because of the words the woman said to me. I felt sad that she called me poor. I went home wondering how some parents can ignore the children who come from poor families; especially here in Nakivale Refugee Camp where so many of us have so little. The following day I went to school. I wanted to play with other students but they kept getting away from me. It seemed they felt the same way as Sarah’s mother. They had made their mind up and did not want to be my friend. All because I was from a poor family, It was a cause of physical pain for me to find I was being ignored, unwanted. I found street boys trying to disturb me because they knew my family was poor and in need of money. I had problems with my vision and my parents did not have money for my treatment. I could not read or write on the blackboard and my classmates used to tell me that I was disturbing them by asking them for books so that I could copy them. I decided to talk to my mother. After a day filled with mopping, washing, cooking, taking care of my younger brother and visiting my older brother in the hospital, I found my mother and said to her, “mother, do you have time?” “No problem , my daughter. I am free to talk, do not fear anything.” “Mother, you know I’m a girl and I need many things, but without advice I will not know what to do.” I told my mother about what Sarah’s mother said and the pain I was suffering at school. “My daughter, I know how you are feeling because those words are painful, but you need to move on with your life. You should just ignore those children and not listen to them any longer.” “I am your daughter and I know your advice will help me, but some rich parents do not want to see their children with poor children like me.” “My daughter, as your mother, I would like to tell you this: respect them. Keep that respect for them and do not stop showing them respect even if they call you bad words, like poor.” “Mother, to keep respecting people who do not want me is not easy. I feel unloved when I sit with other youths because I know they will laugh at me.” “My daughter, they will not stop laughing at you even if you go far from them. You must find the way within yourself, to stop feeling unloved and put confidence in yourself. And then let them laugh. They have decided to laugh at you. But me, as your mother, I know one day they will stop laughing at you because of your success, and because you work hard. Do not listen to their words.” I try everyday to live by my mother’s words. This story was peer reviewed by: Sophia Kaushik
