Starting from scratch
On the surface, the Bagazas look like any other middle-class American family. Both parents work, taking turns caring for their three children, all under age 6. When I visited the family’s home last week, the two oldest kids wore UVA sweatshirts as they lounged on a couch, captivated by “Dora the Explorer.” Before settling in Charlottesville, Patrick Bagaza admitted, he shared the rest of the world’s view that Americans had it easy. All you have to do is work hard and you’ll be successful. Bagaza wasn’t prepared for the jarring reality of starting from scratch.
“I graduated from law school back home, but that doesn’t mean anything here,” he said.
After surviving the 1994 genocide in Rwanda—a 100-day mass slaughter of nearly one million people, starting in his hometown of Kigali, the nation’s capital—and rebuilding a life under the cloud of continuous political unrest, Bagaza and his wife, Esther Umuhoza, welcomed the notion of moving to the U.S.
Esther remembers being in school the day the killings began nearly 20 years ago. She was immediately taken to safety with her parents, who now live in Burundi. She and her family were among the lucky survivors, but the chilling scenes in Kigali still haunt Esther, who tightly hugged the 18-month-old sitting on her lap and shook her head, unwilling to delve any deeper into the memories than a perfunctory explanation.
Perpetual political and financial instability in Rwanda have sent thousands of families fleeing the country. The IRC initially brought Patrick and Esther to Maryland, where they spent two years before settling in Charlottesville in 2009.
After a period of financial assistance from the IRC, Patrick said he was surprised to be cut off after just a few months. He and Esther are grateful that their current jobs at State Farm and UVA housekeeping pay the bills, but Patrick is itching to use his skills in more fulfilling work.
They came to the U.S. to live the dream of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
“That’s what your constitution says, right?” he said.
With a passion for the law and an inherent belief that everyone has the same rights to be protected, Patrick hopes American law school and a career as an international civil rights attorney are on his horizon. Like thousands of others who put years and money into education back home, finding happiness in a job that doesn’t utilize his skill sets is difficult for Patrick. “Math is the same math everywhere, and science is the same science,” Patrick said, frustrated that his education doesn’t carry the same weight in the U.S. “It’s frustrating, but that doesn’t really change anything. I’m happy for what I’m doing now.”
The IRC advocates for recertification classes for educated refugees, but with three little mouths to feed, even between two incomes, the time and money to pursue higher education just aren’t there right now.
The family of five lives in a three-bedroom apartment, and Esther said confidently that they plan to own a house one day. And wherever that house is, they intend to fill it with children, grandchildren, and all the Rwandan culture and food they can.
Aside from the occasional Chinese takeout and macaroni and cheese—which Esther bashfully admitted is one of her new favorites—traditional African cuisine is a staple in this household.
“I don’t know how to cook American food,” Esther said with a laugh.
A common meal she makes for the family is fou fou, a traditional west African dish of starchy vegetable pounded into a dough and eaten in small balls with a soup or sauce. Cassava leaf, a green that cannot be consumed raw but is similar to spinach when cooked, is one of the family’s favorite sides, which Esther said she’s managed to track down in Charlottesville.
At the mention of families eating together, Patrick casually asked about my husband—a question that has caught me off-guard during almost every interview for this story. Being 24, unmarried, and financially independent from my parents would be almost unheard of in Rwanda, and I was both amused and touched by Patrick and Esther’s genuine concern for my emotional well-being as a single adult.
Priorities were different back home. After spending most of their lives in loud, bustling homes amongst generations of extended family members, he and Esther are still not used to living in a suburban environment with only their three children. Charlottesville is quiet, they said, which is both a relief from the turmoil, and a painful reminder of the family lifestyle they’re missing.
“You’re on your own here, but you’re part of a community there,” Patrick said. “You live together and share everything, and money always comes after family.”
Patrick said there’s no use fighting the Americanization process he sees his kids undertake as they grow up here, because the family is here for the long haul. He and Esther can accept most of the cultural differences, but they plan to maintain a Rwandan family structure and encourage their kids to stay at home with spouses and their own kids.
“We live here now, and we are happy,” Patrick said.
Safe haven
Tin Tin Nyo sometimes went days without food or water during her two years in a Burmese government prison, and the military threatened to harm her family if she didn’t hand over names of other political rebels.
“They were looking for specific answers, but I tried to stand for my own beliefs,” Tin Tin said.
Burma, also known as Myanmar, has been under military control since 1962. Tin Tin joined the widespread pro-democracy movement when she was 23, and spent years fighting for social and political reform, mostly by doing community outreach and helping members of the National League for Democracy (NLD) escape arrest. She was arrested and thrown in prison in 2003.
“It was like something big was missing from my life,” said her husband Nyi Nyi Lwin, also translated by his son Aung. “It was difficult. We were supposed to take care of the family together, as a team.”
When she returned home from prison, Tin Tin was overjoyed to be back with her family—but she couldn’t stay away from politics.
“I really wanted to be helpful,” she said.
In summer 2007, a revolution led by political activists, including women and thousands of Buddhist monks, erupted across the country. Rather than risk a second long-term imprisonment, Tin Tin took her family and fled to Thailand, where they spent two years in a refugee camp. The family arrived in Charlottesville in 2009, but Tin Tin’s only daughter returned to Burma almost immediately for a master’s degree in social work and to follow in her mother’s political footsteps. The plan was to start over, but they haven’t forgotten the life they left behind. They have tried, with some success, to create a new community here.
Tin Tin, her husband, and their two sons share a two-story townhouse in the city, which Aung described as “the place where all the Burmese refugees gather.” A round blue teapot sits next to a plate of split peas, dried shrimp, and Burmese tea leaf salad on a tray atop the coffee table.
Posters of Aung San Suu Kyi—the long-time political prisoner and Nobel Peace Prize winner who has led the NLD movement since the 1980s —with phrases like “Freedom to lead” and “Unity is strength” cover the walls, and an American flag and banner featuring the U.S. presidents hangs from the mantel.
“I love that presidents were born here,” Tin Tin said excitedly, gesturing toward the patriotic display over the fireplace. “I like that it’s historical.”
She also said she misses everything about Burma, from her daughter and friends to the language and food. But she loves Charlottesville’s small-town charm and weather, and said she has felt welcome in the area since day one.
Since the family’s arrival in 2009, dozens of families have joined the Burmese community in Charlottesville, and Aung said they all stick together. Fellow refugees and former political prisoners live right down the street, and the family recently hosted a group of visiting monks. Tutors come to the house for open group English lessons, and Tin Tin said having a community of fellow Burmese refugees has made the transition to America much less painful for everybody.
Once they’ve been here for five years and have enough English under their belts to pass the test, they plan to take the oath of citizenship.
“If not, we won’t have citizenship anywhere,” Tin Tin said. “We are no longer Burma citizens.”
Aung, who spent his teenage years in three different countries, went straight to Charlottesville High School when he arrived at age 17, and his English is nearly fluent now. He said he didn’t learn much of the language while living in Thailand because school wasn’t available in the refugee camp, but the language was easy to pick up when he was immersed in it, and at 20, he’s studying computer science at Piedmont Virginia Community College. He likes Charlottesville, and pictures himself living somewhere similar once he’s settled down and married, but first he wants to experience life in a big city. He works at the Omni Hotel with his dad and older brother, but his dream is to be a model.
“I’m trying to get an education first,” he said with a smile, tugging at the sleeve of his form-fitting white thermal shirt.
Before I left her home, Tin Tin said something in rapid Burmese to her son. Aung ran upstairs as Tin Tin flipped hurriedly through a photo album sitting on the coffee table. She tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a picture of a beautiful girl around my age in a traditional Burmese dress. She put her hand over her heart, and said in perfect, tearful English, “I miss my daughter.”
Aung returned with a digital camera, and asked if I’d be willing to take a photo with his mother, because I reminded her of his sister.
Tin Tin scooted next to me on the couch and linked her arm through mine. I’m not entirely sure what Aung said in his native language before snapping the picture, but I assume it was “Smile!”