I grew up in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), the eldest of four
brothers. Life there was OK. My parents worked really hard to send us
to school and supply our basic needs. Dad was a teacher and later a
school principal, while Mum ran one small business after another. We
may not have had enough, but we were surrounded by a large family
and people who could easily pick us up whenever we were down.
We left DRC in 1998, when I was 15. Many, many people left the
country then because of the political crisis and unrest. We sought
refuge in Benin, in West Africa, and stayed there for six-and-a-half
years. Benin was never our home; it always felt like a transitional
place. We were called ‘refugees’ – we knew we were never going to
be citizens. When we were there, we were stateless. But when we
came to Australia, people called us refugees here, too. I thought,
“When is my refugee status going to end?” It made me realise that
we have to redefine the labels we put on people.
I knew little about Australia before coming here. I had very, very
high hopes, dreaming of a country where milk and honey flowed. My
hopes were dashed as soon as we arrived. I realised I had more than
my dreams to fight for – I had to fight the weather; being part of a
minority black community; learning the language; and finding out
how to navigate the Australian system and way of life. Fortunately, I
had people who made life easier: English teachers, church members,
community members and others. I owe them many thanks.
We were granted residency in Australia in 2008, and moved to
Tasmania. Going there gave me the opportunity to do things I would
never have had the chance to do in DRC or Benin, like study. I started
a degree in medical research, but I didn’t finish it because I couldn’t
see myself as a medical researcher. Instead, I transitioned to public
policy. I’m just about to complete my PhD in political studies.
Being in Tasmania also gave me the chance to serve the
community by being involved in advocacy and policy design.
I attempted to run for public office in 2014 and missed out by a
tiny margin. In these times, you require some level of wisdom.
People from the Congo saw me as either an ambitious young man
who thought he could conquer the world, or a young Congolese
man who was doing his best to be someone to be proud of. Some
people who had lived in Australia for a long time saw my standing
for office as a way to strengthen Australian democracy. They
thought it was a positive story, that a former refugee could come
here and, after a few years, stand for public office. Of course, there
were some racist comments, too. It was tough sometimes. It cost
me a lot; it required me to develop a very tough skin.
I last visited the DRC in 2015. When I was there, I felt like I was
a white man in dark skin. In Australia, I am an African, but in the
Congo, people treated me like I was an Australian. It wasn’t because
I’d decided to live in a different way, but you don’t see how muchformer refugee alphonse mulumba
is living in a ‘third space’.
AS TOLD TOLUCY CORRYeverybody
has a story
pieces of me