Grace Schneider

The Courier-Journal

Mulungula "Nico" Mungela realized the night when men from his tiny community gathered at his doorstep, dragged him into his yard and beat him with sticks that the next time he may not survive.

It was late June 2006, but the scars from that horrific beating still mark his back. Some nights, Mungela wakes, breathless, thinking of the fear that gripped his heart as he agonized over what would happen to his wife and eight children if he left, or if he didn't.

Stuffing $450 into his pockets, he fled, launching himself on a treacherous, 2,588-mile odyssey from Bukavu, in Democratic Republic of Congo, hiding in forests to jump borders until he finally collapsed on a beach in South Africa. A Good Samaritan extended a hand in friendship.

The journey through that darkness seemed galaxies away as Mungela, 44, took a seat Tuesday in a basement meeting room at Highland Presbyterian Church beside his wife Chilemb Dorcas and their 22-year-old daughter Byaba.

They were part of a crowd of 150 Congolese, Cubans, Somalis and Burmese who gathered Tuesday for a Thanksgiving lunch hosted by the staff of Kentucky Refugee Ministries, the non-profit group helping to resettle new arrivals in Louisville and Lexington.

The meal of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and favorite dishes offered by newcomers from around the world has become a tradition over more than a decade. The simple message — giving thanks for all the blessings — works for an organization that must be hyper-sensitive to the array of cultural, religious and ethnic traditions of the families they serve.

"This is the one holiday we feel like all of the clients can celebrate. It's a good American pastime," said John Koehlinger, KRM's executive director.

Before they ate, one man offered a Muslim prayer. Yurian Santiesteban, a Cuban-born pastor in South Louisville who'd eaten his first turkey dinner 13 years ago at the same tables, recited his blessing. Another man quietly offered thanks in Burmese.

"We don't have Thanksgiving in Cuba," Santiesteban said afterward. That first dinner "was a surprise." It was wholesome and felt like a sincere welcome.

It was "very special. It's big at my house" now, he said.

Mungela, 44, who arrived with his family on Oct. 22, said he had never heard of Thanksgiving, but he certainly understands the concept. He's been stunned that complete strangers have reached out to help him and his family.

People like Sabine Waigel, who with her son's Boy Scout troop, has filled their rental house with furniture. They've met social workers and ESL teachers who've helped Dorcas and him learn English in weekday classes. Others took his children and enrolled them in schools and lined up physicals at the doctor's.

"So much kindness and respect for us," he said. "It's touched my heart."

Ask Mungela about the events that drove him from Bukavu and his sunny grin disappears. The brow furrows. Surviving in the war-torn country had forced him and his family to flee into the forests three times between 1996 and 2000.

A teacher and senior pastor at a Pentecostal church, Mungela took a huge risk eight years ago when he agreed to harbor six Banyamulenge, ethnic Tutsis, who were part of his mixed congregation and being hunted down to avenge other killings in the community.

Warned he'd made himself a target, Mungela ushered the secrets guests to another safe house. Days later, in late June 2006, fellow Congolese turned up demanding he hand over those he'd been hiding.

The men searched his house and left — but came back a few days later to administer his beating. Within days, he was warned again he'd not survive another visit. "This is how God has protected me," Mungela said.

His journey took him south through Tanzania, Malawi, Mozambique and finally into South Africa, by bus, boat, ship, and hitching rides. He was robbed once right in the middle of a road in Tanzania.

Through a Congo pastor who'd rescued him from the beach, he landed a job as a parking lot guard in Durban. Later, after he sent for his family, he secured a loan to return to college and earned two master's degrees.

Although he and his wife could support their family — he through a college instructor's job working with special-needs students and Dorcas by operating a home day care — the family still struggled to gain a foothold. The country is still rife with discrimination, Mungela said.

In May 2009, the couple applied for refugee status and resettlement through the International Organization for Migration, which partners with the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. Their category covers survivors of violence.

Mungela said he's trying to put the tough times behind him. "I'm thankful for so much. Here, I can see my future. If God will open doors for me," he said, he may become a pastor again someday.

Meanwhile, his children have been thrilled with their new home. They've made a quick transition into school. Their English skills are better than their parents, who grew up speaking Swahili and French, and they're good students, said Allyson Ferry, KRM's volunteer coordinator and assistant youth services coordinator.

The Mungelas made an impression within hours of arriving at the airport in Louisville. Most refugees are taken to their new apartment or house and asked immediately to sign their lease documents. Many hesitate because they worry about the commitment, not knowing how long they may stay in the area.

But the Mungela family walked through the five-bedroom house KRM lined up for them and surprised the agency's housing coordinator when they asked to sign a three-year lease. The staff ultimately talked them into settling for a year for now, Koehlinger said.

During his recent health screening, Mungela said, he told the doctor he wakes at night some with insomnia. But his thoughts are centered on what's ahead. He said: "What I think about now is my future."

Dorcas focused on the present. "I say thank you to God for bringing us here."

Reporter Grace Schneider can be reached at 502-582-4082. Follow her on Twitter @gesinfk.