My mother making coffee. My brothers getting ready for school. My father’s sleepy voice blending into the silence of 5 a.m.

Those used to be the sounds of my mornings, before the sun came up.
But that morning —Friday, October 18th, 1996— a new sound made its way into my head.
A loud, dry blast. No echo.
Like a clap.
A violent clap.

A clap that didn’t come with joy.
It came with fear.

From the window, I could see women and children running, desperately trying to escape that echoless clap.

—“Mama, what is that sound?”
—“It’s a gunshot.”

The shots multiplied.
And with them came all the chaos that usually follows these kinds of sounds.

We were in Congo.
And the sun hadn’t even risen yet.

The war had started. My father said we had to leave.

I was just a child from Congo.
Life was simple. Life was normal.
My village had everything we needed to be happy: freedom.

We could play in peace, and we respected the rules of our tribe and its leader.
Life was perfect. And I knew it.

But then the FDL (Forces de Défense pour la Libération) came.
Along with the conflict, they brought violence, crime, and poverty.

It forced us to walk nearly 80 kilometers to survive.

We carried only what we needed.
My mother held onto a suitcase full of basic utensils to cook along the way.
My father carried our things and when I was too tired, he carried me on his back.

That’s how we walked for days, trying to find a place to settle again.

On that journey, violent events forced us to separate.
Sadly, not all of us made it back together.
My brother never returned.

It was a long path.
One filled with lessons that, back then, only sounded like one question:
“Why me?”

A question that, without knowing, would later become my fuel:
to serve my tribe.

Purpose

Years passed, and I finally finish the high school.
My father was proud. He encouraged me to study medicine, to become a doctor, and help our community.

But that dream died with my father.

My tribe had other needs too. So the dream of becoming a doctor shifted.
After studying business administration, I decided to become a lawyer and give my people dignity, and a voice.

Freedom and my humanitarian work led me to leave my country and move to Malawi.
My mission was working.

I was mobilizing young people and helping them to leave the rebel groups.
These groups were losing strength.

That made me a target by the leaders.

Leaving my country wasn’t easy.
It was full of problems and challenges I never thought I could survive.

But I held onto the idea of peace, of safety, of stability…
The things that, for me, mean a home.

Still Dreaming

Today, I’m grateful for what I’ve lived.
For the people I’ve met.
For those who had inspired me to keep working for my community.

I still dream big.

My dream is to work for the development of humanity, and to advocate for persons rights, especially the rights of persons with disabilities.

By the way, my brother, the one who disappeared that day, is still alive.
We’ve been able to talk sometimes.

I haven’t seen him in 28 years, and I still dream of hugging him again one day.