I always lived with the idea that my mother didn’t love us, but I don’t think that was the case. I was born in Kigali, Rwanda, to an African mother and a Belgian father. At the time, Rwanda was under colonial rule by Belgium. Belgian authorities enforced racial segregation and prohibited interracial marriages in their colonies. I was classified as a “human mule” or half-breed, as we came to be known: a child who didn’t know which group they belonged to.
My dad died when I was six months old – and life changed fundamentally. After the burial of my father, my brother was taken away by Belgian officials and placed in a Catholic boarding school in Kigali. They took him away because my mother was African and we, as Metis children, were deemed a threat to the white supremacist order upon which the colonial project was founded.
They didn’t even tell my mother or seek her permission. She went looking for her son, but dogs were set on her. My brother was relocated to a Protestant parish in Burundi where he had to fend for himself as a servant and was later sent to Denmark.
When I turned three and my sister was five, we were considered “independent” by the colonial authorities. It was thought my mother was no longer needed. After several attempts by police order, my sister and I were abducted and transferred to an institution for “mixed-race” children. I was told my mum tried to stop them.
We stayed there for six months. After that, I was sent to Belgium and placed with a foster family on the coast while my sister was sent to the other side of the country. They always split up families. It was criminal. You grow up with the wrong idea of your family, not knowing how to feel about them. Systematically deporting children is a crime against humanity.
Life on the coast
In Belgium, I grew up on the coast. There was an openness, a connection to the rest of the world. However, the foster family I lived with wasn’t a good fit. The mother had suffered numerous miscarriages and wanted a second child. I felt isolated and ignored, favouring the father. It led to a divide. I was given torn clothes to wear, and they didn’t give me money to study. The one thing that still connected me to my siblings was that my foster father had been given guardianship of us all. When I was 11, I stumbled upon our files and began deciphering them. I found my birth certificate, and the first French word I ever looked up was “illegitimate child”. I was shaken.
I lived with my foster family until I was 16, then went to study in Ghent, where there was a student uprising. My biological father left us an assurance to study. As I was his legal child, and considered an orphan by the state, I received double allowances from the government. I made long-term friends and met activists. I took a job at an organisation that provided contraception and soon realised activism was a part of me. I helped create women’s shelters in Ghent and a forum for children to share their problems, while I tried to reckon with my past.
I eventually established a relationship with my brother and sister. However, I was never able to have a relationship with my mother. When I saw my mum again, it was not a beautiful thing.
I received an inheritance from my biological father when I was 21. I bought a small house in the city and used the rest to go to Rwanda. I went to look for my mother and I found her. I remember the setting vividly. It was so beautiful. The hills were full of people waiting for us to reunite. I arrived and so did my mother. I was with a translator who promised to tell me what she was saying. However, as our meeting progressed, he told me my mother was lying – she said she was lonely, but the translator said she had a husband and two children. It was like being tortured. I flipped, walked away and never turned back. I couldn’t handle it.
We grew up questioning the qualities of our mothers, was she a loving mother, or an easy woman, did she care about us, why did she leave us? I am so sorry, but I have to live with it.
The moment everything changed
I always felt like I had a secret life and wanted to learn about my past. I was studying African studies while working full-time at the tech company IBM. In 2007, I went to a colloquium, where the lecturers had an accepting view of colonisation. At one point, a journalist said it was a nice time to be in Africa, as young people were living freely, but not with the local women. I couldn’t accept it – especially as there had been little talk about the Metis children, their mothers and how they’d been affected by colonisation, so I took action.
I spoke to the director of the research centre and demanded a study specifically on Belgian colonialism and its impact on African people. He agreed. Accessing the federal archives was tricky. Documents about who transported us from Rwanda to Belgium were shrouded in secrecy. However, my husband, a privacy director, told us who to write to. With someone like that behind me, I knew I wouldn’t fail. Eventually, the archive agreed to provide access. Momentum picked up, with a number of Metis groups demanding answers.
I wanted to meet as many Metis children as I could and in 2008, a group of younger and older mixed-race individuals from Brussels, Ghent and Antwerp started gathering testimonies and sought funding. In 2010, the theme of the Ghent Festivities was “the Mixed-Race People of Belgian Colonisation”. We finally published our book, The Bastards of Colonisation, and exhibitions and press coverage followed. It was an explosive hit: packed venues, high numbers of visitors and it continued: a documentary on regional TV, in Belgium, and in other countries.
We gathered signatures, demanding access to archives. Gradually, we gained insights into what was done to us, secured funds, achieving a leadership role.
A crime against humanity
We spoke at different parliaments in Belgium, telling our stories, asking for recognition, access to our files and support to understand our history. Although people are gaining insight into our story, with Belgium recently issuing an apology, I still ask: “What was their justification?” However, there’s no justification for abducting a child and sending them to live with strangers abroad. It is a crime.
There are so many stories of Metis children – and all are incredibly harrowing. Children from the former Belgian Congo, now the Democratic Republic of the Congo, were left alone in isolated institutes, far away from their families, in extremely dangerous and hostile environments. My brother, who was eventually sent to Denmark, was an ideal victim of exploitation. He escaped to America, where he lived as an undocumented migrant because the Belgian embassy until recently wouldn’t provide his papers despite him being a Belgian citizen.
For many years, the word “Métis” was tainted, but we have tried to reclaim the word. This word kept us from reaching our potential. You can never win; you are just in-between. That’s why we chose our own word – and asked for Metis to exist without an accent on the é. The Belgian state had to introduce it in the official Dutch dictionary, only then the Resolution Metis could be voted.
Going forward, many of us are calling for reparations, but in different ways. For me, I want to see funded studies to help us understand our past. However, I am retired and many Metis children are over 70 years old. It’s hard to continue to fight. Support from organisations such as African Futures Lab and Amnesty International means the world to me as it helps us to continue to tell our story.
While being Metis has been difficult, the experiences have shaped who I am.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
