‘I never thought, 30 years after I fled Rwanda, life would be worse for women refugees’ | Alphonsine Kabagabo

Thursday 7 April 1994. It was the day my life changed for ever. Growing up in Rwanda in the 1970s and 80s, I had grown used to discrimination from the government and from institutions because of who I am – a Tutsi.

So when we heard that the Rwandan president, Juvénal Habyarimana, had died, we knew that it was over for every Tutsi person in Rwanda. My daughter was only six months old. What would happen to her? What would happen to me? To my family?

Alongside my sister and her two children, my parents, and some extended family members, we gathered in a small building in the garden of my parents’ house, hoping the militia would not find us.

But they did. “We are going to kill you,” they said. The words rang around in my head. My father gave them whatever he could find of value, and they eventually left. Knowing our location was compromised, we went to the Catholic church to hide – usually just a short walk away but it felt almost impossible to reach because of the number of soldiers in the street. Somehow, we made it.

What we found at the church has stayed with me. There were so many people – some injured, others dying. We were all so scared.

After two days, the killers came. I fled to a small building at the back of the church with my daughter, my sister and her children. We lost contact with my mother and father. I remember us all crying and crying, certain they must have been killed.

A week after the beginning of the genocide, the priest told me someone was looking for me. I thought: “This is it – I am going to be killed.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Guy, my Belgian brother-in-law, was standing there in front of me. It is a moment I will never forget. It was a miracle! I felt safe for the first time in seven days.

The miracle continued. I could not believe it. When they started killing people in the church, my mother fell to the floor and bodies had fallen on top of her. She lay there still for hours, afraid of being found. She was safe. My father, too, survived.

From that point on, we were under international protection, and we were taken to Belgium. We were so lucky, but so many other people were left behind. My friends, my family. The brutality would go on for nearly 100 days, murdering almost 800,000 Tutsis.

Just a few months after our arrival in Belgium, we received refugee status. Of course, life as a refugee was not easy. I could feel myself losing my self-esteem and confidence. I had lost my home, my identity. I was in a new place, experiencing racism and I was unsure of what was next. But I had my refugee status, and I could start to rebuild my life and take charge of my own destiny.

Despite my qualifications and experience, it was not easy to find a job. At home I had been a teacher, and a leader of the Girl Guides, but in Belgium I was defined by my story: I was a refugee. I was fortunate to contact the Girl Guides movement in Belgium and they supported to me to connect with my community, to volunteer and make new friends.

It was through these connections that I learned about the opportunity to apply to be the director of the Africa region for the World Association of Girl Guides and Scouts – a job I did for more than 20 years and loved every minute of.

Today I am the director of Women for Refugee Women, a charity supporting refugee and asylum-seeking women in the UK to rebuild their lives on their terms.

It was women who built me up, and sisterhood that encouraged me to rebuild my life, and to thrive. Twenty-nine years have passed. So, how is it that women like me, women in need of safety, in need of protection, no longer receive this welcome? No longer receive this support?

I received my refugee status and was supported as I rebuilt my life –I was motivated to work, to form a community, and to give back to the people who had welcomed me. But the women we support at Women for Refugee Women are routinely disbelieved, randomly detained, and left to live in atrocious accommodation. They face cruelty instead of compassion, and further harm and hostility in the place of hospitality and hope.

I never thought that almost 30 years after I become a refugee, the situation of other women facing the same challenges would be worse. I thought the world would be more united, compassionate and caring.

Twenty-nine years have passed since my life changed for ever. Today, I celebrate being alive. But I feel immense sadness for those who weren’t saved. And for those fleeing today – who find hostility in the UK.

War, conflict, violence, torture, rape, abuse. The number of people forcibly displaced from their homes and forced to flee for their lives increases every single day.

Everyone deserves to live their life freely, joyfully and safely.

I was one of the lucky ones. But luck isn’t enough. In the face of such horrors, we must stand in solidarity, use our voices, and welcome those in need of protection.

One day love will win. And you can be part of making that happen.

• Alphonsine Kabagabo is the director of Women for Refugee Women, and on the board of trustees at the Refugee Council.