My name is Ansima Rolande. I live in a refugee camp in Uganda.

Since 2018, when I was 15 years old.

I am now 22. 

I was born in Walungu, in South Kivu Province of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). Mine was a very vibrant community. We felt as if we were all one big family.  Everyone lived on the food we cultivated, and each man and woman in the village had a garden for growing food. Children received land and cattle as part of their parents’ investment in their children’s future. 15-year-old boys were given land so they could start working and make money to support themselves and the family, while girls mostly kept birds and small animals for income and contributed to the family gardens. Once a young woman was married, she was given her own land as a gift from her in-laws to support her husband and produce food for the family.

The men were the main breadwinners, so they always had to get yet another gig to support the family. Many had cows, goats, and pigs, which was good, because they multiplied quickly, and the cattle produced milk for more income. The men also made and sold different kinds of local drinks that were alcoholic or non-alcoholic, like juice. Some men even had third jobs working in the mines, mostly meant for those who had failed as cattle breeders or at selling drinks. The men had to travel for long periods. The lucky ones came back rich, while the unlucky ones just wasted time away from their families.

The women were the homekeepers. They were the most amazing cooks; they could throw together all types of ingredients and make delicious meals. The meals were always so nutritious and well-balanced. The foods were all organically grown. I wonder if they even knew about the existence of synthetic chemicals used for food production elsewhere. I wonder, because their gardens were so beautifully organized with all kinds of food to be harvested all year long. These women valued hygiene so much and also kept small animals like Guinea pigs, chickens, ducks, and other birds.

I remember my community being like a vibrant family, a large warm family. Some nights, we would sit together with the oldest grandmother, who basically birthed almost the whole village. 

That was my great-grandmother. And, yes, she was alive when I was born. She was over 100 years old. I had the joy of knowing her for some years before she died in 2011, at the age of 126.

We — my community — would always have storytelling time when we gathered: stories about our families, stories by people returning home from a trip and sharing their experiences, or stories of people simply talking about their day. The air was filled with laughter and happiness. 

Storytelling built trust and togetherness.

All the children were taken care of by any mother in the community who was available. There was a saying: “All the children are ours.” And another one: “It takes a community to educate a child.” 

Celebrations were for everybody.

There was no need for an invitation or for party planning. There was no need to worry about the food or the venue. Common spaces were reserved for these celebrations. Everyone was automatically invited and brought food items and all sorts of drinks. The men would go slaughter only as many animals as were needed to provide the meat to feed the people at the celebrations. And the women would be in the kitchen using special recipes to cook all sorts of delicious dishes from the food contributed by community members for the big feasts.

At the celebrations, we’d all dance, talk, clean, and share the remaining food, before everyone retired to their homes.

It was easy. Nothing was complicated. Life was simple, lived and appreciated for what it was. We lived in harmony with everyone and with nature. Even the weather was predicted without any form of artificial intelligence. Our medicines were prepared by our people from the local and Indigenous plants that grew freely on the lands.

I still dream of this place.

Though this life looked perfect from my community’s point of view, my village was also a target for the rebels who lived in the forests nearby. They controlled the mines, the roads, and the forests.

Occasionally, they would come down to the villages to steal the cattle, demand food, kidnap people to rape and for labor. Houses were burned down. Many were killed, and the rest remained poor. Sorrow, hunger, anger, and disappointment kicked in.

However, despite all that, having each other was what kept us strong. Having each other, we could always start rebuilding life from scratch, always mend our wounds and get past them. 

I was 3 years old when my family left in search of a more peaceful place to live.

But the memories of Walungu never fade. Because at home now in our refugee camp, we always talk about that place. Our ancestral place. Our home. My mother and father, who grew up there, always have a lot to tell about when they were young: what games they used to play as children, where they went to school, and how their monthly fee for their primary school education was only two bars of soap. 

We all miss Walungu. 

If it wasn’t for the insecurities and dangers that caused us to flee and become refugees in another country, we would be living this simple, healthy, peaceful life with all the people we love.

My work now in the Nakivale Refugee Camp in Uganda, where I currently live, is mostly to bring back this sense of family life, unity, and peace. Even if I could bring back even a small fraction of what I remember my life being in Walungu, it would make a really big difference.

Because at least then we would have a little peace.