My Destiny Has Yet to Unfold
Moise Tuombemungu.
In 1994, when the Rwandan ethnic conflict climaxed to utter genocidal slaughter, my parents immigrated to the Democratic Republic of Congo. There, within the thickets and gloom of the jungle lay the remote village of Misisi, where I, the last of six kids, was born. Just as the celebration of birth was ceasing, the civil war that drove my parents from Rwanda followed us to our door. Again, my family found themselves running from the civil war’s wicked bullets. Those bullets that killed so tribally, showing no consideration for their targets, not even for the innocence of infants. To them, our very existence was somehow a direct threat to their greed and folly, so we ran. At times along the road, I would grow ill, sickened by hunger and malnutrition. Day and night, death became more real to me than the beauty of the sun, the liberty of the moon. By the grace of luck, we finally reached the shores of the Tanzanian refugee camp unscathed. My destiny had yet to unfold.
We moved to District B where I soon failed kindergarten. As a result, I was the only student in the whole school who had not received the world cup — a sacred, glorious golden cup given to those students that showed promise, excellency and aptitude. One day, my inability to attain the cup became too much for me to bear. My own disappointment with myself saddened my heart until I found myself at home, my tears overflowing, wailing and groaning till sunset. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. I only slept because my body was tired from the agony of my situation. I woke in tears, my mother, annoyed by my sadness, went to the store. She spent what little we had to buy me the cup and returned home to surprise me. No longer in dismay, but instead happy and proud, my heart soared. Still though, my instructors marked me as slow learner and dumb from an early age. I failed second grade three times, consistently ranking last in my class. All the peers I had started school with were three grades ahead of me. It was evident that my success was not academically inclined — by third grade, I couldn’t even write my name. Instead, my future would include long days of wallowing in the sweat of the open hot fields. I would be a drunkard and a farmer, as was customary for those unsuccessful in school. Although I was safe from the Rwondan Civil War, my future held no value or promise. Fortuitously, events shifted, American Immigration approved us, and we moved to the United Stated in 2007. My destiny had yet to unfold.
To my surprise, I learned English faster than my peers. I conversed with any soul who was willing and fluent, and I caught on to the language with ease. When it was time to go to Elementary School, I found myself of use to my teachers and the school administration. I was constantly called in the office to translate for the rest of my immigrant brothers and sisters. My teachers took an interest in my knack for language, giving me tools and support for my improvement. Before summer break in fifth grade, my teacher gave me three boxes full of second grade level books to read and improve my vocabulary with. The following year, I was reading at an eighth grade level — two years accelerated! My scores were competitive with the scores of native English speakers rather than those of my immigrant peers. By ninth grade, I was the only student in my class to be the recipient of The Award for English and Aptitude. The school newspaper consistently published articles that I wrote, winning the praise of students and faculty alike. More and more each day, I grew to love reading and the pursuit of knowledge. At the end of the second semester in eleventh grade, I decided to graduate a year early. While boredom with high school academics contributed to my decision, I had an undeniable desire for more challenging and rigorous academia. I graduated with the Class of 2015, excited to face the challenges of college. My destiny had yet to unfold.
I attended DMACC, a community college in the Des Moines area, in the fall. Despite the promise I showed in high school, I failed my classes at the end of the year. My failure didn’t stem from an inability to understand the content of my courses, but an overshadowing focus on my community, financial dilemmas and causes shortcoming variables and my own stubborn pride of my intellectual capacity. I would help other students pass classes with flying colors that I had failed. My situation quickly grew desperate. Hopeless, I turned to my pastors and mentors. They outlined a path leading to my success; a conformist path, pushing me toward a dependency of their resources and ambitions. Displeased with their emphasis on personal gain and abhorred by their certain worldviews, I took it upon myself to create my own plan. A path based on my passions and convictions. Whether they decided to support my endeavors or not could not hinder me from chasing my destiny. I applied to the Moody Bible Institute five-year Master of Arts program in pastoral studies and was accepted. As predicted, little support was given to me. Everyone around me, my peers and teachers, encouraged me to take another path. I did not have the money nor the personality to undertake such a journey. In the face of opposition, though, I accepted my admission to the university and am currently a freshman at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago — one of the most praised Christian universities in the world. I am reaching new heights in terms of personal growth — mentally, physically, psychosocially and spiritually. I survived the harsh, stinging words of those who opposed my choice. My success in Chicago is only paralleled by my failures in Tanzania and my shortcomings at DMACC. I am becoming my own man, carving a new empire from the generational poverty I inherited at birth. I am writing my destiny against all odds.
I write to you describing my story with a harsh honesty and a hope that you will see what I have become despite the challenges I have faced. I hope you, readers, may consider sponsoring me with blessings that you may have accumulated. Next semester, a financial barrier threatens my stay at this fine university; deriding the stature of my passion for learning and depriving the food of knowledge which my heart so desires. Without financial support, a famine will fall upon me in months to come. I pray that you give whatever you may have, so that my destiny is not thwarted by the norms of a class I with born into without control or choice. Yet against all the odds, I am more than confident that I will once again overcome this challenge. The bullets of Congo couldn’t tear through my skin, hunger couldn’t destroy my body, my failures couldn’t define me and disease fell short of penetrating my being. Therefore, I will not let this financial famine prevent my success. A man is more than his birth, and he is far less than his death.
My destiny has yet to unfold.
