Peter Mutabazi Slept on Cardboard in Uganda. Now He’s a Foster Father Changing Lives in America.

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Speaker 1: And we continue with our American Stories. Up next, we bring you a story that begins across the ocean in Africa, but winds up being a true story of faith, generosity, and citizenship based here in the United States. Here to share his story is Peter Mutavasi.

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Speaker 2: I’m from a small village at the border of Uganda and Rwanda. My name is Peter Moutavasi. Habiadmna Mutabasi is my dad’s name, and Habiaedmana is the name that I was given at the age of two. You know, for most moms, you know, we never have kids before they are born. As soon as we know we’re pregnant or expecting, you know, we look for names. But in my village, moms were not able to do so. In my village, most kids would die before the age of two. So most moms didn’t name their kids, not because they didn’t love them, but they weren’t sure they would make it, and so they didn’t give us a name until we’re a little bit older. So at two, I was given a name Habbier and Manner, which means “a gift given to me by God.” That’s what my mom named me. I come from a village, you know, where life was miserable in every ship form. You could imagine grapping a home where no one ever told me to be hopeful, or grabbing a home where really tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed, you know, and here are the reasons why. Think about, as a mom, if you cannot feed your child for a day, how do you tell them they have a future? And that was me. You know, at the age of four, I knew I can go fetch water, you know, three to four miles away, just for us to have drinking water. And so as a kid, that’s all I did. Think about that you have to walk four miles one way and four miles back. Do you ever have time to go to school? Absolutely no. My family needed more, you know. They needed water. They needed me to go to school, but also they could not afford me to go to school. Also, you know, I grew up from a family that are farmers. In other words, you know, we call ourselves subsistence farmers, which means we only grow what we consume. You know, we didn’t have enough meals. I can remember we had a meal every other day, and to us, a meal was beans and potatoes, and if we’re lucky, we could have both, but most of them would have one of them, so we can spare one for the next day. So that’s all I knew as a kid, you know, of misery and hardship. But it wasn’t just me. It was every child in that village that worked hard. We all went to fetch water miles and miles away. So I took it as a norm that this is a normal, normal life in some way. But then at the age of five, I began to realize that we were different, that my dad was different from any other dad. I knew that my dad was just so mean, abusive to me, and abusive to my mom and to my siblings as well. I never had kind words from my dad like other kids. You know, we work so hard to please your dads. To me? No, you know, I think all I heard from my dad was, “I was garbage. I would never amount to anything. I am useless.” You know, “the dogs in my neighborhood were worthy or worth more than I was.” And those are the things I heard from my dad every day. And if it wasn’t, you know, coming towards me, it was going through my mom. And as you know, five years old, I could not protect my mom. Misery was all I knew, and I never wanted to see tomorrow because today was hard enough that I really didn’t want to repeat it the next day. And that was my life, you know, from the age of zero to ten, eleven, as a kid in my village, you know. So at the age of ten, I think life had become so miserable. And I think as you grow older, you understand abuse more harshly and harder in some way. You know, those words that I heard every day, that I would never amount to anything, you know, now they were striking me, you know, deep down to the core of myself, you know. But also, I think I hated my dad so much that I thought, “Look, to give him a reason to kill me, that is a gift,” you know. And I think at the age of ten, I said, “Look, I’d rather go die in the hands of someone else than my dad.” So, you know, I didn’t know where I was going, but also I wasn’t looking for a future. But I think I was looking in some way to die in the hands of a stranger than my own dad. So I had never been twenty miles away from my village, you know. I ran away to the bus station at three in the morning, and I asked the lady, “Hey, of all these buses here, which goes the farthest?” And the reason why I was asking was, I needed to go as far as I could. I knew if he met me, if he found me, that he would take my life. So running as far as I could was all that I needed. So the lady told me, “That one,” you know. I got on that bus. I can tell you, it could not. It wasn’t traveling enough, you know. And I had never been in a kind someway. So I was scared to death. I was little. But at the same time, there was a joy to look back and see that I was leaving my village, that I was leaving that man who had, you know, caused harm and who I detested and hated so much. I didn’t know where I was going, but there was a glimpse of, “I don’t have to hear him anymore. I don’t have to take his physical abuse anymore. I don’t have to listen to my mom crying from his abuse. Like, I cannot hear this anymore.” So there was a joy, you know, in some way of leaving. I didn’t know really where I was going. And finally, I made it to Kampala, you know. The journey took, you know, about fourteen, sixteen hours, and I ended up in Kampala, the capital city of Uganda, which is about five hundred kilometers away from my village. And I knew I was fine enough, but also, I knew, he, I mean, a new city. I have no idea. I don’t speak the language. I’ve never been here. But I got one thing to make, to make it through the day. You’re coming from home, it was survival day by day on the streets. It was survival, hour by hour. I remember, I don’t think I ever slept at one point for more than two hours, just to make it, you know. I think I slept less than two hours for four and a half years, hours on the streets, because it wasn’t safe. I got to meet other street kids, and I knew, you know, that I had found family, and that became my family. So I, you know, right away, became a street kid. And I learned how to survive. And yes, the abuse on the streets was harsher, and we had to survive hour by hour. But they were strangers, you know. They called me garbage. They called me, you know, names that you call any useless animal. But at the same time, I was hearing them from strangers that didn’t matter to me, or that I didn’t care about, and I learned to survive. And as street kids, we learned how to work hard. You know, working hard was to help people so we could earn the right to be on the streets. You know, that the work ethic is one thing I knew how to do, you know, but also, to be honest, it was easier to steal while you’re helping. You know, if people need cheap labor, they weren’t paying you, so all you could do is help. In the process of helping, you would steal what you need so at the end of the day you would have enough to eat. And that’s how we survived. You know, back in Uganda, we didn’t beg for money. You know, most people don’t make a dollar a day. You don’t beg for money, but you work so you can earn the right, but also work so hard so you felt you were useful to the strangers who needed your help in some way. But also, for us as street kids, it provided a venue and a place to find food and to feel safe, you know. For us, commotion and where there were people, we felt we could be safe within that environment, and so marketplaces became our home. We lived on the streets where they threw all the garbage, so that meant there were street animals. There were dogs, you know. There were vultures that were all looking for food just like us, you know. And people were mean sometimes. So we would do some work, and they would refuse to give us food, or they would rather throw the way to the garbage, and that’s where we had to go get it. In order for them to get rid of us from where they were, they would throw away the food in the garbage for us to go find it so we could go. But that meant to struggle with the dogs. That meant to fight with the vultures, you know. And I don’t know how I survived, you know, eating, you know, the most horrible food, but somehow made it through the day. You know, that’s truly the grace of God, to be honest, but it was a way to survive. It was a way to make it through the day, and that became my new life.

00:09:12
Speaker 1: And you’re listening to Peter Mudabasi tell the story of his harrowing childhood in the worst possible circumstances a person could grow up. And mothers in his village wouldn’t even name kids until they had reached a certain decent age because most died before they were two. Unimaginable. An abusive father on top of it. And he escapes to the streets of Kampala where he finds community with fellow refugees from the villages to the streets, and community and family with those kids. When we come back, more of Peter Mutabasi’s story here on our American Story. And we’re back with our American Stories and the story of Peter Mutabasi. His book, Now I Am Known, is available on Amazon at local bookstores, wherever you get your books. Peter was born in Uganda in poverty and ran away to Kampala, Uganda’s capital, to escape an abusive father, where he lived on the streets. Back to Peter. You know, this

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Speaker 2: is strange, but if someone was kind to us, we were not. We didn’t go towards that because we knew anyone who was kind, especially for me, anyone who was kind would also come with abuse, so we weren’t trusting. We didn’t trust people. So one day I am sitting with my friends, you know, we see someone wearing glasses and smart and clean, I’m speaking English. So we always knew that was a target. So for me, I saw him, I was like, “I got my target. He’s going to buy food. I’m going to help him, and then I’m going to steal some and I’m going to go,” you know. So I followed him. He bought food, and as soon as he bought what he was buying, I think it was bananas and sweet potatoes. And so I went to him. I said, “I’m going to carry these things to your car.” But before I could do that, he said, “Hey, what’s your name?” And that rattled me. I had lived on the streets for four and a half years. Not once, and so I stopped. And, you know, I told him my name is Peter, and, you know, of course, I tried to help him, and before I could take it, he had something to eat, and he gave me something to eat, and I was surprised, you know, and so he left. I didn’t buy into it. You know, most people were kind—as I said—they were mean at the same time. So I was waiting for him to be mean. But he left. Well, the next week I saw him again. So the second time I saw him, you know, he gave me something to eat, and he called me by name, which was really kind of cool, you know. So he left. The third time, I was like, “Wait a minute! I know what day he comes. I know what car he drives. I know what he buys, and I know where he goes!” So I was assured every Monday that he was coming to the city. So that’s how I got to know him. Though he was kind, though he helped me, I kept my distance. Remember, anyone who was kind always came with abuse. So for me, I was waiting for abuse. Like, I didn’t trust him. Though he was kind, I didn’t trust him because I was waiting for the bad part to come. I was waiting for, you know, for the abuse to come. But it never came. So for one year and a half, he gave me something to eat, and sometimes he would bring more for other kids. And so one day he said, “Hey, Peter, if you had an opportunity to go to school, would you go to school, you know?” And I was like, “Wait, me? A garbage boy, a useless boy, a kid who would never amount to anything—me go to school, you know?” And I did not believe him. But then, every time he came and said, “Hey, I would like to take you to school if you’d like to,” and then, finally, I said, “Absolutely!” And the reason why I said “yes” wasn’t because I wanted to be somebody. You know, my family, we didn’t have so many educated people that I wanted to be like. Now, for me, for the first time in my entire life, someone saw me as a human being. Well, he gave me clothes to wear, and he told me I was going to a boarding school. But before he could take me, he said, “Hey, there are two things that are going to happen. One, you’re going to be part of the local church. Then the other one is, there’ll be meals for you. There’ll be learning to breakfast and dinner.” I think I didn’t hear anything else, but I heard “the meal”—that’s all I heard. So as we went, you know, I really looked at him and I said, “You know, for kids, why me? Like, why are you doing this for me?” And he looked at me and said, “You know, boy, I just want to be faithful. That’s all. I really want to be faithful.” But I did not understand what it meant, you know. So, finally, we made it to school, and it was lunchtime. They gave me something to eat, and he said there would be dinner. So for me, I waited for the next meal. I really didn’t think about school. I didn’t think about anything. And I slept there for one night. And then, because before I left, I told the other street kids like, “Hey, if you don’t see me in the next twenty-four hours, when you see this man, harm him! Please, harm him! That means either he killed me or something happened. So, payback time!” So I slept, and the following night I had to come back to the city because I wanted to tell them that I was okay, because I knew they would harm him if I didn’t come back. So I came back and said, “Hey, I’m okay. He put me in school, and I really like it. There’s food, so I’m going back for food.” So I went back, and in the process of waiting for a meal, I think I realized that in order to do this, I needed to go to class. So then I started going to class. And then I realized that I was smart. Not only was I just good at finding food, but I knew also that I was smart in school as well. And after a while, you know, I was there for six months, he said, “You know, you can be part of a family.” And that really began to change my life, you know, because the teachers, the social workers that they were, you know, that they were coming alongside, began to see the best in me. They saw potential that I didn’t see myself. And I think for me, that truly began to change my world on how I looked at things, you know. And then the one thing he did, once he brought me to his family, they would use words of affirmation that I had never heard before. They would say things like, “Peter, you mattered.” I’m like, “Well, what? Me? I mattered?” You know? One day he was going to the city, and he was taking me with him. I always knew sitting in front was for the important people, you know, that I wasn’t worthy of sitting in front with him. I always sat in the back. But this time he said, “Peter, can you sit in front?” And I said, “No, I don’t deserve to sit in front. I need to sit in the back.” And he looked at me and said, “Peter, no, you belong to this family. You sit in front.” Man, I can remember those words. That day kind of removed the scales of shame, the scales of what I’d been told all my life that I was nobody, that I don’t ever amount to anything, because they saw more in me than I saw in myself. Finally, I finished high school, and then I went to university in Uganda, and then I got a scholarship to go study in England, you know. So after England, and then I went back to Uganda, and I was working for the International Committee of the Red Cross, and my job was to work as a radio operator to make sure that food on planes and trucks was moving from Kenya to Sudan. And so one day I wanted to visit, you know, the refugee camp. So I went there, and while I was there, I saw this eighteen-year-old boy, shut lit. “Yes, why? It was the only one kid ever.” So I was like, “Man, what are you doing here?” He said, “My name is Luke, and I’m here to help the refugees.” And I got to know him, and I said, “Hey, you know, I met an American. So if you come to Kampala, please come and have clean water, and we’ll make sure you’re okay.” And so he came and stayed with us for about two months, and then he went back to the United States. And when he got back in the US, he said, “You know,” he said, “Peter, there’s a school I go to. I think I would like to really help you get a scholarship to come and study here.” And I was like, “Man, I’m not sure. I can’t afford it.” He’s like, “No, leave it up to me. I will do the best I can.” And here I was, you know, from one strange end; it’s like, “You got more potential in life!” And so he got me a scholarship to come and study here in the United States. And so I went to school for four years, and then I was hired at the end, you know, to be an advocate for Children with Compassion International. So I get to travel with keynote speakers and, you know, reverends and all people to show them the work of compassion all over the world. And so not only did I travel, you know, to my twenty countries I had traveled in, but now I had an opportunity to travel to one hundred and one countries, which was absolutely mind-blowing, you know. From a street kid in Kampala who didn’t think about tomorrow, there I was jumping from one country to the other, which was really fascinating. But all I wanted was to truly be a voice for the unseen, the unheard, the ones that we all know, that I wanted them to know their story through telling my own story, that people would help them. And so that became my job for ten years.

00:18:40
Speaker 1: And what a story you’ve been listening to from Peter Mudabasi. He lived on the streets for four and a half years. When a man asked him what his name was, it was the first time it had happened to him. And of course, that act of kindness he assumed would alwa-