I grew up grappling with the notion that my mother didn’t love my siblings and me—a sentiment that, upon reflection, seems to miss the complexity of our situation. I was born in Kigali, Rwanda, to an African mother and a Belgian father during a period of Belgian colonial rule that strictly enforced racial segregation and banned interracial marriages. Those of us classified as “Metis” were left to navigate an identity that straddled multiple worlds, often without clear belonging.
My father’s passing when I was just six months old initiated a series of life-altering events. Following the burial, Belgian authorities took my brother from our mother, placing him in a Catholic boarding school in Kigali, ostensibly assuming guardianship over him due to our racial background. We rarely consider the implications of such actions, but these early abductions were emblematic of the broader systemic injustices faced by children like us—deemed threats to an oppressive social order.
At the age of three, my sister and I were similarly removed from her care, placed into an institution designed for “mixed-race” children, relegated to a life that further distanced us from our roots. Such forced separations contribute to profound disconnections within families, leading to the painful experience of “growing up without knowing how to feel” about one’s heritage.
Upon moving to Belgium, I encountered a world characterized by contradictions—exposure to global narratives contrasted sharply with the harmful realities I faced within my foster family. Isolated and inadequately supported, I grappled with self-worth and identity. At 11, discovering my birth certificate accompanied a rush of emotions and reinforced the stigma I carried.
Eventually, I ventured to study in Ghent, where I encountered a vibrant atmosphere of activism that encouraged my involvement in issues affecting women and children. In this new environment, I found purpose, striving to create spaces for dialogue and support for those grappling with similar experiences.
My journey later brought me back to Rwanda, in search of my mother. The reunion was fraught with mixed emotions, revealing layered truths enveloped in misunderstanding and hurt. We had long questioned her choices, navigating the complex terrain of maternal love amidst historical injustices.
The moment I began studying African history while working at IBM catalyzed my activism. Attending a colloquium underscored the absence of narratives surrounding Metis children, prompting me to demand acknowledgment and research into the colonial impacts on individuals like myself.
In 2008, I initiated efforts to document the experiences of Metis children. Our collective storytelling culminated in The Bastards of Colonisation—a landmark publication that ignited public discourse and drew attention to the historical injustices we endured. Together, we sought reparative actions that resonated not just in Belgium but also within a broader context of historical accountability.
The movement is ongoing. With renewed calls for reparations and reparative studies, we continue to untangle the legacies of the past, enlisting support from organizations such as African Futures Lab and Amnesty International. The journey of acknowledging our stories is not just a path toward healing for the Metis community but also an essential step for societies grappling with the effects of colonialism.
The complexities of being Metis have shaped my identity; these experiences define who I am and underscore the importance of advocating for justice, understanding, and reconciliation.
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