The first time I heard people like me being called ‘cockroaches’, I was a university student dreaming of becoming a journalist.
At first, they were just words on the radio. Politicians and journalists talking about people with Rwandan heritage as though we were less than human. I never could have imagined those words would help instigate hate, division and deaths to justify the violence in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
Looking back now, I realise something: I wish more people truly understood that hateful words can quickly inspire hateful acts.
Until then, my childhood had been a happy one. I loved cooking and baking, and our home was always full of laughter. We’d gather for big family dinners where everyone talked over each other and on Sundays we’d go to church together. I felt safe. I felt Congolese. I had never even been to Rwanda.
But slowly, everything changed. Every day we heard more reports about the fighting. Friends started telling us that people with Rwandan heritage were leaving and that perhaps we should too. We couldn’t understand why. We hadn’t done anything wrong.
Called ‘cockroaches’, people with Rwandan heritage were attacked
Then the language became more sinister. People like me were called ‘cockroaches’. We were told we needed to be exterminated. The propaganda spread quickly, convincing ordinary people they were protecting their country by turning against their neighbours.
More and more families like ours went into hiding. One afternoon, while walking home with my aunt, we saw a soldier approaching. She looked at me and said: “I am safe Nadine, but you are not. Run. Now.”
And so, I ran. I ran and I ran. I knew my life depended on it; at one point I even scaled a six-foot wall. I couldn’t even tell you how I did it, it was pure survival instinct, but I got away.
As the violence escalated, women and girls were raped in their homes. Families we knew from church were attacked. People were burned alive in the streets. My entire life was falling apart because of our Rwandan heritage.
Survival meant losing everything that mattered – except life
When you’re forced to flee, you don’t get to plan. You just have to take whatever chance you have. My journey to safety was long and traumatic. By the end, I wasn’t afraid of dying anymore. I was only afraid that if I did die, my family would never know what had happened to me.
When I finally arrived in the UK, I had just £20 and didn’t know a single person. I didn’t even know that was such a thing as ‘claiming asylum’. I had escaped torture and persecution, but I was completely alone.
At night I dreamt about home: my parents, the smell of coffee in the kitchen, family life before everything was destroyed. I was so homesick, and my life was in limbo. I had nothing but family memories, the only thing I treasured.
Eventually, I found Freedom from Torture. For the first time since fleeing, I met people who understood what surviving torture does to your mind. Through specialist therapy and support, I slowly began to believe that my life wasn’t over. I learnt to trust people again. I made friends. I rebuilt my confidence. I went back to university and built a career helping people access the support they need.
Today, London is my home. I have children of my own. The UK gave me the chance to rebuild my life. And this is exactly why I find the public conversation about refugees so painful.
Why the language used about refugees is frightening
Sometimes when I hear refugees described as threats, as burdens, as an ‘invasion’, I worry about what will happen next. I know that the UK is not the country I fled. But I’ve lived through what happens when people are taught to see others as less than human. That’s why we cannot dismiss dehumanising language as ‘just words’.
Many refugees in the UK today, like me, have escaped unimaginable violence. It is estimated that around one in three people seeking asylum in countries like the UK has survived torture. But these are not statistics. They are people trying to rebuild their lives.
The UK I know is full of kindness. I know that because I have experienced it myself. Neighbours welcomed me. Colleagues supported me. Complete strangers showed me kindness when I needed it most. Those acts of compassion and humanity saved me.
The first time I heard people being called ‘cockroaches’, I didn’t understand where those words could lead. Now I do. And that’s why I hope we never stop challenging language that strips people of their humanity, of their dignity. Because behind every headline is a person who has lost their home, their family or their sense of safety. Someone who simply wanted to survive.
