Haunted By Ghosts Of The Violence I Escaped

In January of this year, I moved to New Haven to start a job with an amazing refugee resettlement organization, Integrated Refugee and Immigrant Services.

I was excited about my new position. In February, I decided to take a walk downtown to familiarize myself with my new city. I entered a restaurant and sat near a group of three white gentlemen. They invited me to join them at their table, but the look of one of them scared me. Putting away my doubts, I joined them. They introduced themselves to me and I did the same.

Then, the scary-looking guy asked where I had come from. Before I answered, he said, ​“I hope you did not come here illegally and are now living on American taxes.” I replied, ​“NO, SIR.” But, his question had already watered down the nice gesture of inviting me to their table. And so, even before the Covid-19 lockdown, I started thinking about how to avoid people no matter how nice or innocent they look.

My family came to the United States seeking safety. As black immigrants, we have found insecurity and racism here too.

I am terrified. I do not need to make a last prayer when I see a police officer for fear of being killed. I do not want to have to teach my children the best ways to conduct themselves when a police officer stops them, when they go to the park or store. Or to prepare them for the racism they will encounter almost anywhere they go. Everyone should feel safe in their communities.

As America reckons with the violent deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and so many other black people, I struggle to take in what is happening. Along with the thousands of African Americans who have died in acts of violence, there are many stories of black refugees and immigrants being brutally assaulted and even being killed. I worry about my own safety and the safety of my family.

After watching the video of Mr. Floyd being murdered and hearing the stories of so many black people being killed, I’m afraid. If I see a police officer or car behind me or anything that looks like a police uniform in my vicinity, I think, ​“Oh no, not me, please.” I no longer conduct my evening walks and jogging for fear of being shot. Black people like me are living in fear that we may be the next George Floyds, Ahmaud Arberys, and the many others who have been victims of the system.

I am scared about my children growing in a country where they have to face racism that makes them feel less human and alien. One evening, I sat down with my 7‑year-old daughter to ask how her day went and what she learned at school, and she said, ​“Daddy, why is it that after we shook hands in church as a sign of peace and love, this girl cleaned her hand on her dress after shaking mine?”

It’s been almost four years, but her question still rotates in my head.

Thankfully, I had begun educating myself about my new home. I had read a little about racism and discussed it in my policy advocacy classes. Still, it is just very difficult to talk about racism, especially with children. I told her that no matter how other people perceive or treat us, we should never treat them the same way or feel inferior. And I used the recognition she was getting in school to show her how strong and powerful she is.

Despite what I told her, I always worry when I see her leaving the house. Every day, I worry about what experiences she will have and whether she tells me and her mother or not.

In April 2018, I heard about the assault of Dorika Uwimana, a Congolese refugee teen who was attacked by Terry Wayne King II while she was waiting for her school bus in Fort Worth. Looking at the photos of Dorika in a hospital bed fighting for her life, awaiting a heart transplant as a result of injuries sustained during the assault, broke my heart and worried me. I had the opportunity to visit her and her family in Texas, where I was living at the time. Dorika will never go back to a normal childhood.

In June, a 17-year-old black refugee was killed in Cleveland. Eric Hakizimana was coming home from playing soccer when a man shot him in the chest and left him on the street. He later died in the hospital.

Like Dorika, Eric, and thousands of other refugees, my family and I came to the U.S. seeking safety. After living in a refugee camp in Uganda for almost 20 years and going through the resettlement process for over five years, I was overjoyed when my family and I received our visas to come here. We were glad to leave behind the insecurity we had endured for so long, with no hope of returning to our home country or of being accorded the rights and freedoms of citizenship in Uganda.

Although refugees go through a cultural orientation process before coming to the U.S., they are not thoroughly prepared for the racism, poverty, and violence they will have to confront here. I am sincerely grateful for the generosity with which so many Americans have welcomed me and other refugees, supporting us to restart our lives, educate our children, and build a better future. But we face insecurity and racism here. There are many stereotypes and myths about refugees and immigrants that can even lead to death. We continue to live in fear for our lives.

I once received a call from a friend who lived with me in a refugee camp in Uganda. Someone had called him the n‑word and showed him the middle finger. He asked me what that meant. I explained to him, and he said, ​“I did not know that there is tribalism in America.” Tribalism was the closest thing to racism that he had experienced in the past.

Tribalism on the African continent has caused misery and pain. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, it is estimated that over six million people have died since the war began in 1996. I fled to Uganda and applied for resettlement to the U.S. in the hope of a safer life.

Black refugees and immigrants are scared. We have gone through traumatic experiences in our home countries and refugee camps. And going through this again is traumatizing.

Nobody should have to die because of who they are. The U.S. needs policies that will put an end to discrimination and racism. Refugees come here in search of safety, freedom, and security. But we face racism, violence, and insecurity. I pray that future generations will only learn about this in their history classes and not through experience.

Bahati Kanyamanza is the manager of youth programs at Integrated Refugee & Immigrant Services in New Haven. As a boy in the Democratic Republic of Congo, he was kidnapped by rebels, escaped and wandered from village to village until he landed at a refugee camp in Uganda. He has been advocating for refugee rights since 2005. He came to the United States in 2016.