The High Plateaus: Resilience and the Banyamulenge Struggle for Identity

Guest

You know, pain is a multifaceted thing in this unforgiving world. We see so much happening to people in our environments, and it's why I always say we have to be careful before we judge someone's decisions or their transgressions. You never truly know the demons someone is fighting or the impossible choices they've been forced to make. To me, the flip side of that pain is resilience. It's how we handle adversity and severe challenges even when every condition seems to be stacked against us. And for my people, the Banyamulenge, resilience isn't just a trait—it's our entire history.

Guest

I meant that, and if I were to introduce myself traditionally, I would say: Shimwe Josua ndi Umusita waba Sinzira nkaba ndi umunyamulenge. Now, I know that sounds like a lot to take in, but in English, it means I am Josua Ishimwe, but I am also identifying the clans of my father and my mother. In our culture, you always introduce your parents' clans immediately after your name. It’s how we preserve hereditary information. It’s practical, too—it helps us avoid incest among cousins and brothers—but more importantly, it’s a living record of who we are. When I get into our current struggles, you'll see why saying these names is an act of resistance in itself.

Guest

That's right, eighteen clans. The Banyamulenge first settled in what is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo back in the 16th century. There were many waves of migration that followed, right up until the 18th century, long before modern borders were drawn or European colonizers arrived. Our ancestors came from neighboring Rwanda, parts of present-day Burundi, Tanzania, and Uganda. Those eighteen clans identify exactly where our ancestors originated. Over time, intermarriages formed new clans, but the core identity remained. We are the people of the high plateaus, but our roots spread across the entire region.

Guest

I was taught how to whistle by the age of five. It sounds simple, but it’s a critical skill for a cowherd. The cows recognize your specific whistle even from a great distance. As a child, you grow up on the farm, learning the rhythm of the animals. You learn how to milk them, how to make ikivuguto—which is this wonderful fermented milk, sort of like a thick yogurt. Every part of our life involves the cow. Our traditional dance for women involves spreading the arms wide above the head to symbolize the long horns of our cattle. Even our marriages are sealed with a bride price paid in cows. It’s hard work, growing up on a farm, but looking back, those were the best moments of my life.

Guest

It’s a cycle of denied citizenship and ethnic violence that has haunted us for decades. Despite being in eastern Congo for centuries, our Tutsi heritage has been used against us. Successive governments and neighboring groups have treated us like foreign invaders. The real turning point, or at least one of the most painful ones, was the 1981 Citizenship Law. You see, in 1971, President Mobutu Sese Seko had granted broad citizenship to people of Rwandan descent. But just ten years later, under political pressure, the parliament revoked it. Suddenly, we were effectively stateless in the only home we knew.

Guest

I will tell you, it only got worse from there. In 1995, there was an official decree to expel the Banyamulenge entirely. That triggered an existential fight for survival that continues to this day. What we are seeing now is what many call a 'slow genocide.' Local Mai-Mai militias, often allied with foreign rebels and sometimes even the government, have besieged our people in the high plateaus of South Kivu. They aren't just attacking people; they are attacking our way of life. More than three hundred of our villages have been burned to the ground. Thousands have been killed, and hundreds of thousands of our cattle—our economic heart—have been slaughtered or stolen.

Guest

And that is the great fear. More than 95 percent of the Banyamulenge still in the DRC are internally displaced. When you lose the land and the cattle, you lose the classroom where our culture is taught. But that’s where the word-of-mouth protection comes in. That’s why we insist on those clan introductions. Every newborn child, whether in a camp in Burundi or a suburb in America, is taught about their roots. We are taking control of our heritage so it can never be fully erased, no matter where we are physically.

Guest

When you are faced with total annihilation and the national army isn't protecting you—or worse, is actively working against you—you have no choice. Twirwaneho is a principle of survival. We have a tradition of raising local defense forces. High-ranking Banyamulenge officers have actually deserted the national Congolese army to return to the high plateaus and organize the community's defense. Groups like Gumino, which means 'Let's stay here,' were formed because we refuse to be pushed out of our ancestral lands.

Guest

It’s a fair question, and it’s a incredibly difficult position to be in. But you have to understand the context of military encirclement. When you are under a total blockade, you seek alliances where you can to secure arms and tactical depth. Is it complicated? Yes. But when the alternative is the complete eradication of your people, the nuances of political optics become secondary to the immediate need to stay alive. We aren't fighting to take over the country; we are fighting for the right to exist within it.

Guest

The diaspora is our lifeline to the world. Because the conflicts in eastern DRC are so often overshadowed by broader regional politics, the specific violence against the Banyamulenge often goes underreported. Our people in North America and Europe are incredibly organized. They fund legal defense, they track atrocities with meticulous detail, and they lobby Western governments. We’ve had protests at the UN headquarters and rallies in Kenya. We are using every tool available to demand international intervention against the siege. We are bypassing the media oversight that has ignored us for too long.

Guest

Precisely. We refuse to yield our claim to nationality. Despite the stigma, we have members of our community who have risen to high ranks in the DRC’s military, police, and parliament. We keep a voice in national politics even when it's polarized. We are Congolese. That is our right, and we will not let a piece of paper or a militia's fire take that identity away from us.

Guest

To me, pain is having a place you call home, a place of immense beauty and rich culture, but being told you don't belong there because of political convenience. It’s seeing your history burned and your cattle stolen, yet still standing tall. There is so much more to say, but I hope people take the time to truly see us. We are still here.