From the Desert to the Forest

How Tshishiku Survived Living in the Desert for a Decade

Story Written By: Tshishiku Henry, tshishikuhenry@gmail.com
Edited By: Hayley Ross, Dainelis Rodriguez, and Naz Hussein

Originally from the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), Henry and his family lived in the Malawi Dzaleka refugee camp from 2009 to 2018. During his time at the camp, Henry created a children’s arts club intending to promote children’s talent while also providing therapy and entertainment from the trauma they experienced. This program reached more than 1000 children every year and eventually was funded by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). Henry also created a program for women and youth who had aged out of the children’s arts club, providing training in services so that they could start their own business. Those who graduated from the program were eligible to receive a small loan to jumpstart their business.

In 2018, Henry immigrated to the U.S. He continues to support immigrants and refugees as an employment services counselor with Jewish Family Services. Also, Henry volunteers with the Refugee Congress as a delegate for the state of Washington.

More than half of Malawians live on less than one U.S. dollar per day. The vast majority rely on subsistence farming. The industry is limited and major exports include tea, coffee, sugar, and tobacco. Despite being a poor nation, Malawi currently hosts close to 40,000 refugees. Most refugees come from the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), Rwanda, Burundi, Ethiopia, and Somalia.

The largest refugee camp in Malawi is called Dzaleka, located in Dowa District. Its distance is around 50 km from Lilongwe, the capital city. Dzaleka was established by UNHCR in 1994 in response to the surge of forcibly displaced people fleeing genocide, violence, and wars in Burundi, Rwanda, and the DRC.

Prior to becoming a refugee camp, the Dzaleka facility had served as a political prison to around 6, 000 inmates. Malawi’s policies regulated the movement and employment of refugees, limiting the opportunities to earn a living outside the camp. Therefore, most refugees are completely reliant on food, aid, and other external assistance for survival. With this situation, I consider the Dzaleka camp as a desert due to a lack of resources.

Photo of the UNHCR office at Dzaleka Refugee Camp. Photo Credit: UNHCR Rumbani Msiska and United Nations Malawi

I was born in DRC, in a big family. My mother is a strong woman as she managed to have 11 children. I am her 7th born child. Before I was born, my father lost his job and since then I have never seen him with a legitimate job. He would do some pieces of work that did not guarantee payment. The responsibility became too heavy on my parents. Unable to provide basic necessities, my mother started working as a tailor and my father became a tailoring machine repairer. There was no promise that they would get customers the next day. Even if they got customers, the money would just be enough for one meal a day. The school fees were a luxury, despite my parents wanting us to have a better education. Yet, their finances were proving the contrary. I remember going to school sometimes without eating.

At school, I was always sent back home for failure to pay the school fee on time. It was not easy for me to just go back home. I loved school, so I hid myself under desks so that the school teacher in charge of the school fee would not notice me.

It was funny, but not everyone was happy with that. Some students would say to the teacher, “Tshishiku is hiding.” At that time, there was no other way than to run. I would run fast— so fast that one day the headmaster named me the fastest runner amongst all the students. He gave me the name of a famous soccer player in Congo, Tresor Mputu.

One day, the headmaster barged into class and called the names of every student who did not pay their school fees. He told us to go home. As usual, I hid under the desk. I knew that my father at home had no money. When the discipline master noticed that I hid under the desk, he returned to class with a stick so he could hit me, but I jolted away so fast that it made him laugh.

“Kiekiekie, he runs like Tresor Mputu”, the discipline master said.

Since that day, many of my schoolmates started calling me Tresor Mputu. I was fortunate, even if I was always outside the class due to not paying the school fees.

I was a hard working student. I was amongst the top 3 best students, so with this I gained a scholarship from a company. The company managed to pay for me until I completed my high school.

In 2009, my life was in danger. I had no other choice than to leave the country for my safety. I told my mother that this is the time I have to leave. My mother told me, “Go my son, we shall meet again, I trust that you can survive.” That was my first day crossing my country’s border unlawfully, which is very common for refugees. I went to Zambia, from one track to another. I reached Malawi in Lilongwe where I was taken to the Dzaleka refugee camp.

The day I entered the refugee camp, I was dirty, covered with dust, and very thin. I arrived aboard the UNHCR truck. When I exited the truck, I did not know where I would sleep or eat. I was greeted by a group of Rwandese. They thought I was from Rwanda and greeted me in Rwandan, “Mwiriwe”?

I answered, “I don’t understand.’’
They repeated “Mwiriwe.”
“Sorry I don’t understand that language.”

I heard one of them say, “You are trying to change your nationality here?” I was shocked. I said to myself that this is the reason that I left my country. I left and was taken into a transit shelter where I spent about a week eating fried maize and sleeping on the floor with a single blanket. I had no clothes to change into except the ones I was wearing. I went outside to meet with my community leader. When I introduced myself to him, he just looked at me and said, “Are you from Congo?” Then I said, “Yes.”

He did not believe me: he said I may be from Rwanda. I told him, “No, I am not from Rwanda and I have never been to Rwanda.” I could not believe it. He took his phone and called the Rwandese community leader. The Rwandan leader came and greeted me in Kinyarwanda, “Mwiriwe”. It was my second time hearing that greeting. I could not respond to him; he said that he is not sure if I am from Rwanda. Both of them were not sure from which community I belong, so no one could help me. From that day, I felt alone again even though I was surrounded by people. This is the day when I smelled the scent of the desert.

Though we did not have a good life in my family, home was always sweet.

I went to a church where they offered me a place to sleep: a one-bedroom with almost no door and roof. I had no food and I was alone. Some church members supported me with food. I was also getting monthly food support from the World Food Program (WFP): about 1lb of beans, ¼ liter of oil, and 14kg of maize. With no other source of income, I sometimes sold parts of my maize to buy vegetables. Other days I counted the beans, one grain after another, to make sure I divided them according to the number of days that I would eat them.

I decided to look for a job, but there was no way for me to get a job. I did not know how to speak English and Chichewa. I had some bricklaying skills, so this eventually became my source of income. I remember building at two to three places a day. I could build at one place from 4 AM to 9 AM, move to another place from 9 AM to 1 PM, and then relocate to the last. I would return home at 8 PM, very tired and hungry. I managed to save some money through the bricklaying job and bought a second-hand bicycle. I wanted to learn English as well, so I enrolled myself in an English as a second language (ESL) class. With my bicycle, I would collect over 200 pounds of charcoal for 20 miles on a mountain road, up and down. One day, I left ESL class on an empty stomach.

Example of what biking with charcoal might look like. Photo Credit: World Agroforestry photo of charcoal sellers in Mozambique.

I took my bicycle to collect charcoal from the village which was around 15 miles away from the refugee camp. I had to go around 3 PM and come back around 1 or 2 AM on a dark road. On my way back from the village, around 2 AM, I was hungry and thirsty. I had no food or water, and I was very tired with almost 200lb bags of charcoal on my bicycle. Suddenly, I fell down and I could not wake up. All my power was exhausted.

I decided to sleep in the dark forest. I laid my head on my charcoal bag. I almost died. I felt the pain in my heart. I felt it as if it was a wound to my heart. I cried but no tears came out of my eyes. I felt like my heart was out of my body, but it was still inside of me. I slept there. I still relive that vision up to now.

Around 5 AM, I found some power in my legs again. I managed to lift my bicycle and started moving toward the refugee camp, hoping to reach it on time to sell my charcoal and go to school. Suddenly, I heard a car coming behind me. They were the officers from the Malawi forest— they suddenly stopped without asking. They kicked me down then confiscated my bicycle and bags of charcoal. They told me that refugees are not allowed to buy charcoal from Malawians to avoid deforestation.

The officers left. I was alone in the forest and far from the refugee camp. My bicycle and bag of charcoal were confiscated, but the forest officers did not tell me where their office was located. I cried. I lost all my capital and means of transportation that I worked so hard for.

I kept walking for about 7 miles. When I got close to my house, it was early in the morning. I met with a woman, whom we called “Mama Kabangue”. When she saw me, she shouted, “Hey, Henry, the roofing of your house was taken by the winds. In case you are looking for it, it went with the winds, down there in the football ground.”

I told her “thank you” and started running. When I reached my house, I found exactly what Mama Kabangue told me. Nothing was left of my roof and there was dust everywhere. It covered my food and my bed. The bed, which was commonly known as “Tombo”, was made of bricks, sand, and a blanket thrown on top. I was thinking of how I could rearrange my roofing, but the weather did not allow it. The rain was pouring at a high speed.

I felt the sense and smell of the desert once more. This time around, it happened in the rain season. The irony pained me.

Due to the weather, I could not work anymore to build toilets or houses. My source of income was gone. There were no job postings. So, I had to knock on people’s doors to ask if they had anything that I could help with, so I could get paid. I started fetching water for people and digging toilet holes.

This picture was taken in the Dzaleka refugee camp. Here, Henry dug a toilet hole of more than 20 feet with his bare hands and a short shovel. Photo Credit: Tshishiku Henry

After two months, my bicycle was returned through the Malawi police, but my charcoal was nowhere to be seen.

In the years 2011–2012, I managed to complete my high school in Malawi. Later, I applied to be a volunteer teacher at a high school for the subjects mathematics and French. In 2013, I was offered a job to work as a primary school teacher. At this time, my life started changing.

The desert smell started changing into a forest’s.

At this time, I was already able to speak functional English. I also joined the Boy Scouts organization, where I volunteered as an adult educator. In 2013, I met my wife and asked her to marry me.

I remember I had around $0.01 in my pocket. That was all. But I was rich in my love for her.

The next day, I bought airtime with the money I had to call my new love. When I went to school, I was offered a job. They promoted me from being a volunteer to a paid volunteer position at a primary school. I was paid around $50 per month, which was enough for my wife and me. In 2015, I created a platform teaching children and unaccompanied minors poetry, drawing, and music. The position landed me a job as a community mobilizer under UNHCR and Plan international. I find myself with two jobs in a community where finding a single job is as difficult as finding diamonds.

Children’s platform created by Tshishiku Henry to teach them poetry, drawing, dancing, and music in the Dzaleka refugee camp. Photo Credit: Tshishiku Henry

I said to myself: I found water in the desert. Since then, my life changed. I did not remember my bicycle anymore and forgot the long journey to the village to collect charcoal.

In 2015, I was selected for resettlement in the USA. I thought that the desert would change into a forest. I started the process, then suddenly, Trump reduced the refugee admission numbers.

At this time, I already had my first child. The year 2016 passed by and my hope to live in the USA dwindled. In mid-2017, my wife became pregnant with our second child. When the USCIS reassessed my case, we were put on hold because of the pregnancy until September 2018. Finally, I received a call that my family’s case is scheduled for travel to the USA. They said I should get ready to travel within 9 days. Even though I was happy, I had two jobs. It was very stressful to do the handover in a week and simultaneously prepare for my departure.

I arrived in the USA with my wife and two children. I got my first job in a warehouse. It was a big warehouse and it was a very hard job. I stood on my feet for 10 hours a day with a 30 minutes break only. Every night, when I returned home, I was exhausted and cried alongside my wife.

She asked me if there was any way for us to go back to Africa, but I told her that America is a forest full of trees, water, and many animals. It is different from the desert. If I was able to survive in the desert, I could survive in the forest.

90% of my first job wage covered my rent, and I relied on food stamps for the rest of my expenses. Even so, I kept searching for a good job. In 2019, I was offered a job at a non-profit organization in Seattle, Washington. It was my dream job. Now, I am happy with my family. In 2020, I was able to buy a house.

I am now enjoying the fruits of my labor. I have found honey in the forest.

Tshishiku is a member of the Spring 2021 cohort in the New American Speakers Program. To learn more about him and his journey to America, visit our YouTube channel.

Assignment video of Tshishiku for NASP on a poem about his name

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