Life In America

Life in the USA

My arrival in the United States marked the beginning of a remarkable journey as an international student, made possible by the F-1 Visa, commonly referred to as the “Academic Student Visa.” This visa unlocked the doors to a full-time education at an accredited American institution, in my case, Southern New Hampshire University located in the vibrant city of Manchester, New Hampshire. The F-1 Visa typically granted international students the invaluable opportunity to enroll in a wide array of educational institutions across the United States, including colleges, universities, seminaries, conservatories, and language training programs.

What made my F-1 Visa even more extraordinary was the fact that it was stamped in a Refugee Travel Document issued by the Kenyan Government through the UNHCR. It was nearly inconceivable and seemingly impossible for a Rwandan refugee like myself to obtain such a visa, especially given the challenges posed by UNHCR Nairobi offices, which were often less than helpful. Yet, I firmly believe that the guidance of a higher power made the impossible possible. Having witnessed life in one of the world’s largest refugee camps, Kakuma, and having endured the hardships of living as a beggar on the streets of Nairobi, obtaining this visa felt nothing short of miraculous.

My determination to seize this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity burned bright, fueled not only by my aspirations for personal growth but also by a profound desire to honor the unwavering support and sacrifices made by individuals like the Englunds and the Temples, who had invested so heavily in my education. The thought of disappointing them was beyond comprehension, motivating me to embark on this incredible educational journey in the land of limitless possibilities.

Work Study

Upon arriving at Southern New Hampshire University, I wasted no time in my pursuit of work opportunities. My eagerness drove me to knock on every available door, seeking employment options that would allow me to start earning money as quickly as possible. While I felt incredibly fortunate to be in the USA, a sense of urgency gnawed at me. Time was of the essence in my quest to locate my mother in the dense Congolese jungle, especially considering the ongoing unrest caused by Kagame and Museveni’s troops, who continued to wreak havoc and slaughter people in Congo, killing both Congolese citizens and Rwandan refugees. I understood the importance of making the most of the opportunity and time I had at hand to accumulate the necessary funds to achieve my deeply cherished goal. I wanted to save my mother at whatever cost, since now God had offered me the opportunity to do so, and all I needed was to exert the effort required.

Upon my arrival in the USA in 2009, the state of New Hampshire had implemented an increase in its minimum wage. In May 2007, Governor John Lynch signed into law the first wage hike in a decade, elevating the minimum wage to $7.25 per hour, effective July 24, 2009. This was particularly appealing to a Kenyan student like me, as I sought to earn a modest income with the intention of utilizing the funds to locate my mother, who had vanished into the depths of the Ituri forest due to mineral conflicts in the region.

Despite the stringent guidelines accompanying the F-1 Visa, which imposed a maximum limit of 20 work hours during the academic term for international students like myself, the opportunity for full-time employment during breaks and outside of class sessions remained an invaluable lifeline, one I was resolutely determined to grasp. Nothing held greater importance for me at that moment than the quest to locate my mother, who had disappeared in 1998 during the harrowing Songamana military operations in northern Rwanda. These operations, orchestrated by the Tutsi government soldiers, led to the loss of hundreds of thousands of innocent lives in Ruhengeri and Gisenyi. I clung to the hope that any meager earnings I could muster would mark a significant step toward discovering whether my mother and the siblings she was carrying when she fled had survived the horrors or met an unfortunate fate.

Aside from my determination to earn money during my work-study period to fund the search for my missing mother in the Congolese jungle, I also had a close-knit circle of friends, especially fellow refugees from Kenya. We often gathered and shared our experiences, and they were not as fortunate as I had been. I occasionally supported them with their bills, particularly rent in Nairobi, a significant concern among urban refugees who struggled with unemployment while caring for their families. They had to provide shelter for their children, put food on the table, and cover school fees in a foreign land where assistance from institutions, including the often-corrupt UNHCR Nairobi office, was scarce. When they learned about my opportunity to go to the land of opportunities, they held hope that my fortune would somehow extend to them and help improve their livelihoods. I had pledged to assist with their rent burdens, driven by the African philosophy of ubuntu, which emphasizes “being self through others” and underscores the idea that “I am because of who we all are.”

This philosophy resonated deeply with me, finding a profound alignment with the teachings of Jesus Christ as documented in the New Testament. It continually underscores the importance of fundamental concepts such as demonstrating love for one another (John 13:35), cultivating peace and harmony (Romans 13:14-21), selflessly serving each other (Galatians 5:13; 6:10), providing encouragement (1 Thessalonians 5:11), and bearing with one another (Ephesians 4:2). These guiding principles culminate in the powerful message of Matthew 25:35-36, urging us to extend a compassionate hand to those in need: “For I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger, and you invited me in. I needed clothes, and you clothed me, I was sick, and you looked after me, I was in prison, and you came to visit me.”

These deeply ingrained beliefs and aspirations instilled in me a strong sense of purpose—to seek work-study opportunities and earn money, not only for my personal goals but also to serve as a vessel for alleviating the suffering in the lives of others. Recognizing the generosity of God in my own life, I felt compelled to share that generosity with those in need.

However, after months of tirelessly knocking on doors, I encountered two formidable challenges. Firstly, my daily school routine was intricately synchronized, courtesy of the Englunds, who diligently dropped me off at school and picked me up afterward on school days. This coordination posed a logistical challenge for pursuing on-campus employment. In the United States, meticulous planning is paramount, with families often scheduling activities well in advance, driven by the country’s distinct climate patterns. Unlike Africa, where weather follows a more predictable pattern of sunshine and rain, allowing flexibility regardless of weather conditions, the Northern Hemisphere experiences distinct seasons, each demanding tailored activities. I was determined not to disrupt the well-considered plans of the Englunds, my gracious hosts, nor did I wish to inconvenience them. Secondly, as a newcomer to the university, I discovered that limited job opportunities were primarily reserved for returning students, making it arduous to secure flexible employment that could accommodate my unique circumstances.

Although I initially pursued the idea of seeking on-campus work at Southern New Hampshire University, I eventually decided to put this plan aside. I recognized that it could potentially create unnecessary logistical challenges, so I shifted my focus to what truly mattered most: my academic pursuits. I placed my trust in God, hoping that somehow, in His own way, He would guide me to find my mother. My energy and dedication were channeled entirely into my studies, where I excelled. Simultaneously, I embarked on a mission to secure the legal documents necessary to reside and work in the USA without the limitations imposed by the F-1 Visa guidelines and challenges.

Upon making the decision to prioritize my pursuit of asylum in the USA, with the hope of gaining protection, the ability to work without stringent guidelines, and the potential path towards a Green Card and eventually US citizenship, I embarked on an extensive research and learning journey concerning the asylum application process in the United States. This expedition immersed me in the intricate world of immigration laws, a subject I diligently explored through a multitude of internet videos and free online courses. My objective was to attain a comprehensive comprehension of my legal status, its potential implications, and the optimal approach to construct my case for maximum chances of success.

My situation was anything but typical; it carried a distinctive set of complexities. While I had obtained protection from the UNHCR Nairobi offices, thanks to the advocacy of Professor Ahmed Ali Ahmed, one of my professors, my entry into the USA diverged from the conventional refugee resettlement process. I had arrived as an international student using a refugee travel document. Adding to the intricacy, I held a position with the highest office in Kenya, introducing additional layers of complexity to my asylum-seeking endeavor in the USA. Understanding the nuanced aspects of my case, I acknowledged the paramount significance of acquiring an in-depth comprehension of US immigration laws, particularly within the context of the asylum application process. Consequently, I dedicated months to meticulous study, always mindful of the critical deadline looming—one year from my initial arrival in the USA for submitting my asylum application.

Another idea had been lingering in my mind since the outset of my journey. Initially, my plan had revolved around completing my studies in the USA and then returning to serve in the Kenyan Government, leveraging the granted “study leave” meant for government employees like myself. This leave was a unique opportunity, allowing me as a civil servant to pursue advanced education in the USA, with the explicit aim of enhancing my knowledge and skills for the mutual benefit of both my personal growth and my employer, the Kenyan government. Dr. Alfred Mutua and the Office of the President had wholeheartedly endorsed this arrangement, with the expectation that I would eventually come back to Kenya to contribute to the nation. Kenya, to me, had been a haven—a country that welcomed me when my own homeland had rejected me and even threatened my life on multiple occasions. I felt an immense debt of gratitude to Kenya for sheltering Rwandan refugees, particularly Hutu refugees like myself.

However, while my job in the Office of the President remained secure, I understood that there were no guarantees that those who had shielded me from the enmity of jealous Kenyans would always be in a position to do so. Consequently, the prospect of building a life in the USA began to emerge as the ideal pursuit. I recognized that although some US politicians had played a role in our expulsion from our motherland, the benevolence of God and His greater purpose, which transcends all human understanding (Philippians 4:7), had triumphed over the malevolent intentions of the world. Thus, the USA was not only destined to become my home but also that of my future generations, a divine decision that strengthened my resolve to apply for asylum in the USA more than ever before.Another idea had been lingering in my mind since the outset of my journey. Initially, my plan had revolved around completing my studies in the USA and then returning to serve in the Kenyan Government, leveraging the granted “study leave” meant for government employees like myself. This leave was a unique opportunity, allowing me as a civil servant to pursue advanced education in the USA, with the explicit aim of enhancing my knowledge and skills for the mutual benefit of both my personal growth and my employer, the Kenyan government. Dr. Alfred Mutua and the Office of the President had wholeheartedly endorsed this arrangement, with the expectation that I would eventually come back to Kenya to contribute to the nation. Kenya, to me, had been a haven—a country that welcomed me when my own homeland had rejected me and even threatened my life on multiple occasions. I felt an immense debt of gratitude to Kenya for sheltering Rwandan refugees, particularly Hutu refugees like myself.

Nonetheless, even as my position in the Office of the President remained secure, I carried the awareness that there were no guarantees that those who had protected me from the enmity of jealous Kenyans would always be in a position to do so. This realization led me to contemplate the prospect of building a life in the USA as an increasingly ideal pursuit. I came to understand that while some US politicians had played a role in our expulsion from our motherland, the benevolence of God and His overarching purpose, a purpose that defied all human understanding as evidenced in the generosity and kindness of the Englunds, had ultimately triumphed over the malevolent intentions of the world. Consequently, the USA was not merely a destination, but a divine destiny for me and my future generations, an epiphany that fortified my determination to pursue asylum in the USA with greater conviction than ever before.

During my first year in the USA, I embarked on two distinct objectives. Firstly, I was determined to excel academically, not only to secure a brighter future for myself but also to honor the sacrifices made by incredible individuals who had dedicated their efforts to ensure my happiness and success. The Englunds, the Temples, and numerous others had gone to great lengths to support and uplift me, and I was resolute in my desire not to disappoint them. I saw achieving a high GPA as a way to express my gratitude. Simultaneously, I was keen on navigating the legal processes required to obtain the rights coveted by people from all corners of the world: the right to live in the USA. Many individuals, both from affluent and less privileged nations, invest substantial resources to send their children to study in the USA or even ensure their loved ones give birth on American soil, all in pursuit of the American dream. Yet, for me, circumstances had conspired to create a surrogate family in the USA that could provide the support needed to study here and eventually offer me the opportunity to become an American citizen without the exorbitant costs—a chance I was determined not to squander.

My experience at Southern New Hampshire University took a significant turn when I encountered one particular professor during my studies. This professor, responsible for teaching one of my business courses, exhibited a distinct and openly evident disapproval of me. I couldn’t help but wonder if my status as the only black male in his class, alongside a Tanzanian lady and myself, played a role in his treatment. Alternatively, it could have been my comment during a class lecture when he introduced the topic of Freemasonry, a subject I had no previous personal experience with but shared the general African perception of. To this day, I remain unsure of the exact reasons for his animosity or why he seemed to harbor such discontent towards me throughout the course.

During one of the lectures, this professor decided to engage the class, likely sensing the need to inject some life into his often mundane teaching style, at least from my perspective. He introduced the topic of Freemasonry and inquired about our thoughts on the subject. Most of the white American students readily shared their opinions, with many characterizing the Freemasons as either a secretive cult or practitioners of devil worship. I found myself in a surreal situation, confronted with an open discussion about Freemasonry. This was particularly unsettling for me, given the prevalent belief in Africa, especially in Kenya, where the Freemasons are often associated with dark rituals and mysterious wealth acquisition. Unintentionally, my facial expressions conveyed my unease, as I grappled with the fact that I was being taught by someone openly associated with the Freemasons. In Nairobi, whenever someone points out the Freemason Temple along Nyerere Road, the immediate reaction is to look away, as the stories and rumors surrounding Freemasonry can be quite unsettling. This is precisely what was racing through my mind when the professor revealed his affiliation with the Freemasons during that lecture.

As I continued my studies at Southern New Hampshire University, an encounter with one of my professors had a significant impact on my educational journey in the USA. This particular professor, who taught one of my business courses, displayed a clear disapproval of me, which I suspected might be related to being one of the few black students in his class, if not my comment during a lecture about Freemasonry. During that class, he prompted a discussion on Freemasonry, and when asked for my opinion, I expressed my surprise at meeting someone who openly identified as a Freemason, mentioning the prevalent belief in Africa, particularly in Kenya, that Freemasons were involved in dark rituals and sacrifices for wealth. The professor’s reaction to my comment was unexpected, and his attitude toward me seemed to deteriorate even further, manifesting in how he graded my work. Despite his unfavorable disposition, I excelled in other courses, prompting me to consider changing schools after my grades were finalized. This decision led me to search for universities in the New England region, allowing me to be away from home while maintaining my vital connection with the Englunds, who had been an indispensable source of support and care in my life.

During my search for a reputable and welcoming institution to continue my education, I came across Brandeis University, particularly The Heller School for Social Policy and Management, which stood out prominently. My decision to pursue my studies at Brandeis was heavily influenced by its distinctive philosophy and unwavering commitment to sustainable development, a field that closely resonated with my evolving academic interests. Brandeis University held a profound appeal to me due to its remarkable history and founding principles. What struck me deeply was the university’s origin, established by the American Jewish community at a time when discrimination and prejudice severely limited opportunities for Jews and other marginalized groups at many leading U.S. educational institutions. The founders of Brandeis had a visionary goal: to create a university that welcomed individuals from all backgrounds, regardless of their beliefs or origins. This commitment to inclusivity and diversity resonated profoundly with me, given my own experiences as a refugee who had encountered discrimination. As someone who had faced adversity both as a refugee and as a black male in the USA, a country grappling with its own complex history of discrimination, I felt that Brandeis University was where I truly belonged. Moreover, I had been informed that cities like Boston, where Brandeis is located, offered a more inclusive and diverse environment compared to rural New Hampshire. This aligning of values and the promise of a more inclusive academic community at Brandeis solidified my decision to embark on this new chapter of my educational journey at the Heller School.

Once the decision to join Brandeis University, Heller School was made, I wasted no time in reaching out to them. Alongside my academic transcripts from Southern New Hampshire University, I penned a heartfelt letter of intent that detailed my tumultuous journey from being a refugee on the streets of Nairobi to finding the Englunds and the Temples, who had selflessly sacrificed everything to provide me with educational opportunities. This letter emphasized how their support had ultimately led me to pursue my graduate studies in the USA, and why I was now considering transitioning from Southern NH University to Brandeis University, Heller School.

Upon receiving my documents and heartfelt letter, Brandeis University didn’t keep me waiting. They promptly reached out to express their enthusiasm about my application and were genuinely excited that I wanted to become a part of Brandeis University, Heller School. To sweeten the deal, they even offered me some scholarships to help cover my expenses. This was a tremendous relief, as I was not only academically deserving but also in financial need due to my challenging background. My story perfectly aligned with Brandeis University’s mission to uplift marginalized members of the global society.

As the communication continued, they extended an invitation for me, along with the Englunds, to visit Heller School in person. Stepping onto the campus and witnessing the warm welcome and the wealth of opportunities for my academic growth, it became undeniably clear to me that Brandeis University, Heller School, was where I truly belonged. The combination of their support, academic excellence, and commitment to inclusivity made it abundantly evident that this was the right place for me to embark on the next chapter of my educational journey in the USA.

Heller School

My experience at the Heller School was nothing short of exceptional, setting it apart from other educational institutions in the United States in terms of diversity and mission. Southern NH University, where I had previously studied, had a stark contrast in terms of diversity, with only two Black students in a class of over 40, despite the USA having a population of over 40 million Black individuals. In sharp contrast, Heller School boasted a diverse student body from all corners of the world. In my own classroom, there were Black students hailing from Kenya, Rwanda, Nigeria, Gambia, Latin America, South Africa, Mozambique, Burundi, Uganda, the Caribbean, and the United States. This diversity was not limited to Black students; the student body was a vibrant mosaic representing various backgrounds, including Asia, the Pacific Islands, the Middle East, Latin America, Europe, and more.

This diverse environment created an atmosphere where every student felt comfortable contributing to discussions and tackling global challenges while collaboratively seeking solutions. It was evident that the Heller School placed a strong emphasis on fostering an inclusive and open-minded community, allowing everyone to engage deeply with topics and work together to address the complex issues facing our world. This alignment of values and commitment to global progress further solidified my belief that Brandeis University and Heller School were the perfect places for me to pursue my education.

The Heller School’s commitment to “Knowledge Advancing Social Justice and Human Rights” transcended mere rhetoric; it was a vibrant, lived reality. While it faced its share of challenges, notably from US lobbyists pursuing their own interests, my time as a student allowed me to directly witness the profound impact of this commitment. As the first Hutu refugee student who had personally endured the horrors of the DR Congo under the oppressive regimes of General Paul Kagame and General Kayumba Nyamwasa, I seized the opportunity to share my firsthand accounts of the unspeakable atrocities inflicted upon Rwandan and Congolese refugees by Kagame’s Tutsi troops. This dialogue not only exposed the extent of Kagame’s actions in the DR Congo and Rwanda but also shed light on how politics can be wielded to obscure and deny human atrocities, especially when the victims lack a voice and means to share their suffering.

During my tenure as a student at Brandeis University, a significant event unfolded that would shed light on the suffering of Hutu and Congolese people between 1996 and 2003. This event was the publication of the UN Mapping Report on the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), a report that provided harrowing accounts of the atrocities committed during that period. Notably, it detailed how Tutsi soldiers, led by Paul Kagame, were responsible for the deaths of millions of Rwandan Hutu refugees and Congolese civilians. The publication of this report was met with resistance, particularly from the US Democratic administration, including the Obama administration. Their concern stemmed from the report’s potential to tarnish Kagame’s image, who had enjoyed support from key Democratic figures like Bill Clinton. Consequently, there were efforts to suppress the UN Mapping Report, but the authors, realizing its importance, chose to leak it to “Le Monde” to ensure it reached the public eye. The report’s findings substantiated the allegations that many had dismissed and exposed the human toll of the conflict over Congolese rare minerals, as well as the proxy role played by the Rwandan regime in serving US interests in the DR Congo.

Upon my admission to Brandeis University, it became increasingly clear that the institution was not oblivious to the injustices faced by Rwandan Hutu refugees, injustices that had long been shrouded in secrecy. In Rwanda, a deeply ingrained discriminatory system favored Tutsi students who were sent to study abroad, particularly in countries like the USA, UK, Germany, Canada, and New Zealand, while leaving Hutu students to seek education in countries like India, Indonesia, Malaysia, and South Africa. Upon their return to Rwanda, the Tutsi students with degrees from Western institutions often enjoyed better opportunities, perpetuating this apartheid-like system in Rwanda.

This inequality extended to Brandeis University, where a lack of understanding of Rwandan politics led to the admission of Rwandan students without recognizing the underlying apartheid-like dynamics. During my time at Brandeis, despite Hutus making up 85% of Rwanda’s population and Tutsis only 14%, we were only two Hutu students among more than seven Rwandans. This issue is not unique to Brandeis; many U.S. colleges lack insight into Rwanda’s complex political landscape, inadvertently supporting an emerging apartheid-like regime in Kigali. Tutsis already hold over 80% of influential government positions, including military, financial, and political leadership. Continued favoritism by Western universities risks further entrenching this dangerous apartheid in Rwanda.

Amidst the intricate political dynamics at Brandeis University, I was fortunate to discover a warm and empathetic community at the Heller School. The majority of my professors and fellow students, with the exception of a few individuals aligned with supporting dictator Paul Kagame, exhibited a nuanced understanding of the Rwandan conflict’s complexities. While they genuinely empathized with our suffering and the ongoing turmoil in the DR Congo, many of them found themselves constrained by political considerations, limiting their influence over university decisions such as inviting Kagame as a keynote speaker.

Despite the political challenges I encountered at the Heller School, which were somewhat expected given the Clinton administration’s role in assisting the Kagame regime in downplaying the crimes against humanity committed against Hutu refugees in the DR Congo, it was within the Heller School that I encountered a group of people who genuinely believed in me and empathized with my situation. The Heller School became a sanctuary where people came together to provide authentic comfort and listen to my concerns.

Among these compassionate individuals were students, faculty, staff, and kind-hearted faculty members like Ravi Lakshmikanthan, who united to offer their support. Their unwavering commitment and financial contributions, coupled with the summer graduate fellowship I received from the Harvard University Law School Program On Negotiations during my master’s degree research in Tanzania, along with the assistance from the Englunds and other friends, came together to play a pivotal role in financing two expeditions into the DR Congo. Through these determined efforts, we successfully located my mother and two surviving siblings, who had endured the harsh conditions of the remote jungles of DR Congo, specifically in a place known as Biambe. This location was approximately 60 km from Butembo town and roughly 340 km from the city of Goma in Eastern DRC.

In My Mother’s Arms Again

Upon receiving the call from the team I had hired to search for my mother and two younger siblings in the Congolese jungle of Biambe, informing me of their discovery, I was initially filled with disbelief. It seemed too good to be true, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were merely trying to elicit excitement from me in the hopes of receiving additional funds. Prior to their expedition, I had equipped them with two Chinese smartphones and a portable solar cellphone charger, ensuring they could stay connected while journeying back into the Congolese jungle to locate my mother. As a deposit for their services, I had entrusted them with $2,600 and committed to providing the remaining $4,400 upon successfully reuniting me with my mother. The total fee they requested was $7,000, with a promise of a refund should they fail to locate her. These individuals were well-known among most Rwandan refugees in Nairobi, having built a reputation for their expertise in family reunification by tirelessly searching, finding, and reconnecting refugees living in Nairobi with their long-lost loved ones from the depths of the Ituri forest. Knowing that their own families resided in Nairobi provided some assurance that they would honor their refund commitment if, against my hopes, they were unable to find my mother. Nevertheless, doubt still lingered as many years had passed with no news of my mother’s whereabouts. Despite my reservations, I chose to hold onto hope and requested that they provide photographic proof of their discovery, a promise they made once they had settled after this momentous find.

Unlike the year 2000 when the majority of people in Africa lacked access to cellphones, the landscape had significantly changed by 2012, with smartphones becoming increasingly popular. Kenya, a country known for its educated and hardworking population, had witnessed a surge in the availability of affordable Chinese smartphones in electronic outlets across Nairobi. It was this growing prevalence of smartphones that gave me the confidence to request that the team searching for my mother send me photographic proof of their discovery. They assured me that once they reached a place called Butembo town, where they could purchase airtime units and access the internet, they would send me the photos I eagerly awaited. After about a week, two momentous photos arrived in my Facebook inbox. As I stared at them, seated on a hotel room bed in Arusha, Tanzania, I found myself gazing at the ceiling in sheer disbelief, whispering, “This is my mother.” In the photos, she wasn’t alone; she was accompanied by two young children who, I later learned, were my long-lost siblings whom I had never met. I hastily sent them a message confirming that indeed they had found my mother. It was a momentous occasion; after nearly 15 years, I was finally seeing my mother again. My last memory of her dated back to that fateful night in the Kibumba refugee camp, just hours before Tutsi soldiers invaded the camp around 3 a.m., mercilessly slaughtering anything that moved. I had awakened to the deafening sounds of gunfire and the sight of bullets whizzing overhead. With no time to wake my mother or bid her a proper farewell, I fled, naked and terrified, into the depths of the Nyiragongo forest.

Now, 15 years later, as my siblings were entering their teenage years, I received the astonishing news that my mother was still alive. It was a revelation that struck me with disbelief because millions of Hutu refugees had met their tragic end, both inside Rwanda and within the unforgiving depths of the DR Congo. I had never dared to entertain the hope that my mother could have survived the relentless onslaught by Tutsi soldiers. She had sought refuge in the Congolese forest after Tutsi soldiers, under the command of General Kayumba Nyamwasa, had brutally taken the lives of her husband and several of my siblings in a place called Mukingo commune in 1998, located in northern Rwanda’s Ruhengeri region. The realization that there was an increased chance of reuniting with my mother left me overwhelmed with joy. I fell to my knees on the hotel room floor, tears streaming down my cheeks, and with arms raised toward the ceiling, I offered heartfelt thanks to God. Amidst the flood of emotions, my lips stammered in gratitude, “You have done it for me once more.”

After enduring a week of anxious anticipation, fervently counting down the days until my mother’s arrival in Nairobi, the long-awaited call finally came. On the other end of the line, I heard my mother’s voice for the first time in 15 years. Her words filled my heart with a mixture of emotions, and as I listened, tears welled up uncontrollably, much like those of a helpless infant yearning for the soothing embrace of its distant mother. She, too, was overcome with emotion and asked, “Twayigize, my son, is it truly you?” With equal intensity, I assured her, “Yes, Mom, it’s me.” Her next words resonated with faith and gratitude as she said, “Now, I thank my God, for people may break their vows, but God cannot break His word (Heb. 6:17-19). His word is eternal and unchanging, just like His promises.” I could only respond with a heartfelt “Amen,” affirming my agreement with her profound words. Later that evening, they boarded the 7 p.m. bus in Kampala, destined for Nairobi and a long-awaited reunion. Positioned at the Mash Bus stop in downtown Nairobi, I eagerly awaited the moment that would mark the end of our 15-year separation.

When the bus finally pulled into the Mash station at Nairobi’s bus station that morning, my mother couldn’t contain her excitement. As soon as the bus doors opened, she stood up and made a beeline toward me. Our long-awaited reunion was marked by an embrace that seemed to stretch for eternity. She held me so tightly, squeezing every bone in my body, a gesture deeply rooted in our traditions, ensuring I was real and unharmed. Throughout the embrace, she whispered in our mother tongue, “Uwiteka Yadukore Ibikomeye Natwe Turishimye,” her favorite Bible verse from Psalm 126:2-4, which proclaims, “…The LORD has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.” For nearly 10 minutes, she refused to let go, showering me with blessings and words of gratitude, to which I responded with heartfelt “Amens.”

She then introduced my younger siblings to me, and their expressions were a mix of wonder and disbelief. It was understandable; they had never seen me before, and I looked much older than them. The questions must have swirled in their minds as they tried to place me in their lives. Who was this stranger claiming to be their older brother? Despite their initial confusion, there was also a glimmer of happiness in their eyes. For the first time, they were meeting their older brother, and the prospect of having a new family member filled them with a sense of joy and anticipation.

After our heartwarming reunion at the bus station, we made our way to a hotel where we would spend the next two weeks together. During this time, my mother’s days were marked by an unceasing chorus of praise and hymn songs, a continuous celebration of joy and gratitude. Sleep often eluded her, for the overwhelming joy of being reunited with her son left her wide awake. She would roam around our hotel room, arms reaching toward the heavens, showering praise and glorification upon God, thanking Him for keeping the promise she had believed in for so long. For years in exile, she had clung to the hope of seeing her son alive again, and now, that long-awaited day had finally arrived. Much of her time was spent reading the Bible, and she regularly gathered me and my siblings for heartfelt prayer sessions. Whenever I ventured outside the hotel, she would patiently stand by our room’s door, eagerly awaiting my return with open arms, ready to continue celebrating our miraculous reunion.

Whenever an opportunity arose, my mother would pose countless questions, her curiosity burning with the need to understand how I had survived. In return, I listened to her heart-wrenching accounts of the brutal fate that had befallen my father and my siblings at the hands of Tutsi soldiers. Some nights, our conversations would take a somber turn as she delved into the memories of the kids we had grown up with, the same children with whom we had played soccer and engaged in spirited games of hide and seek in our peaceful village. She recounted in vivid detail how they were ruthlessly taken away and mercilessly slaughtered by Kagame’s soldiers. The stories she shared were a tapestry of joy and sorrow, reflecting the stark contrast of our experiences during those turbulent years between 1996 and 1998.

Amidst the tales of our neighbors, friends, family, and acquaintances meeting tragic ends, one story pierced my heart deeply. It was the account of my childhood friend, “Ntuyenabo Deogratias,” affectionately known as “Doga.” The soldiers had cruelly seized him, along with his wife and their four-month-old baby, from his mother’s home. They forced him into the open market near Musanze caves, where unimaginable horrors awaited. In that macabre setting, Doga’s life was brutally extinguished as they severed his throat. His wife faced an unimaginable choice, as the soldiers demanded that she drink her husband’s blood to spare her own life. In a display of unimaginable courage and defiance, she refused and requested that they end her life alongside her beloved husband. Tragically, they first took the life of their innocent four-month-old son, a horrifying act witnessed by the entire community in disbelief. As the mother saw her precious child cruelly slaughtered, she couldn’t bear the weight of her grief and shock. She rushed toward one of the soldiers, who promptly ended her life with a fatal shot. Doga, his wife, and their son were left exposed in the open market, their lifeless bodies a haunting testament to the brutality of those dark days. Doga’s mother, upon witnessing this unspeakable horror, never recovered and spiraled into madness, forever scarred by sorrow, trauma, and unimaginable sadness.

As the time approached for me to return to the USA to continue my graduate studies, I shared with my mother how God had abundantly blessed me, drawing together people from distant corners of the world to contribute to the life she now witnessed. People had conveyed to her that God’s blessings were upon me, but it was only when she saw His grace manifested in our surroundings that she truly believed. She marveled at the hotel where we resided in Nairobi, the way we navigated the bustling city streets, and our visit to the majestic Kenyatta International Convention Centre (KICC). I explained to her that this very building had once housed my office, where I had served as a civil servant, and it became a symbol of the community, family, and friends that God had provided in a foreign land when my own country had seemingly betrayed me and conspired against my life.

I suggested that now God had reunited us and it was time for her to settle in Nairobi, where she would experience peace and be near me, allowing us to be together whenever I wanted. “In Nairobi, you won’t have to worry about being chased away by our potential threats, and I am more than capable of supporting you in your old age, given the blessings and abilities God has granted me,” I assured her with conviction. However, to my surprise, my mother lovingly reminded me of the solemn promises she had made to God during those 15 long years when we had no knowledge of each other’s survival or well-being.

She began, her voice filled with emotion, “My son, when your father and your siblings were tragically killed by the Tutsi soldiers in 1998, I prayed day and night, imploring God to preserve you—the first fruit of my womb—so that you could return to me and provide solace in my grief. I poured my heart into fervent prayers, fasting, and heartfelt pleas, making a solemn vow that if God would protect you and miraculously bring you back to me alive, I would devote the remaining years of my life to His service. Now that our gracious God has upheld His end of the bargain, I find it difficult to stay in this foreign land. I fear I won’t be able to serve Him as I should here, given my unfamiliarity with their language, customs, and beliefs. I’ve witnessed your remarkable journey, how you’ve not just survived but thrived, receiving a quality education, living in a peaceful country, and being embraced by kind-hearted people. It’s time for you to start your own family, raise your children in the knowledge of the Lord, and share with them the boundless goodness of our God.”

With profound conviction, my mother invited me to sit down with her, her weathered Bible in hand, its pages marked and underlined by the passage of time. She began to recite her favorite Bible verse from Joshua 24:15 (KJV), infusing it with her own interpretations that resonated deeply with me: “And if it seem evil unto you to serve the Lord, choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell (it was by God’s grace that you survived the killers of Kigali. It was by God’s miraculous hands that you came into these foreign countries, where you found favor with their people. It is by God’s grace that we are reunited today. This is why I have made the decision to serve our God, just as Joshua declared): but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

At that moment, a profound realization washed over me. I understood the depth of my mother’s commitment to our God, and her unwavering faith shone brightly. She remained resolute in her decision to return to Rwanda and devote the remainder of her days to serving the Lord, just as she had solemnly vowed. I didn’t want to be the reason she couldn’t keep her promise and commitment to our God. So, I embraced her decision, and together, we began the preparations for her journey back to Rwanda.

The brief time we spent together had a profound impact on me. It rejuvenated my faith and made me recognize the areas in which I was lacking. I made a personal vow to follow in her footsteps, inspired by her unwavering devotion and her determination to fulfill her promise to God. Her words, infused with her profound faith, served as a powerful testament to her unshakeable commitment, and they left an indelible mark on my heart.

With those heartfelt words, my mother embraced me tightly, imparting her blessings upon me as we then accompanied her to the bus bound for Rwanda, a place she had been away from for 15 long years. The house we once called home had been reduced to rubble by the Kagame’s government, a grim reminder of the past. I knew that we needed to rebuild her house from the ground up so that she could have a place to live, a sanctuary to call her own. With a final kiss goodbye, I left for the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport to catch my flight back to the USA. Our hearts brimmed with joy and gratitude, for our God had undeniably performed extraordinary deeds in our lives, despite our unworthiness.

As I boarded the plane bound for Boston, a profound sense of contentment enveloped me. Our God had faithfully fulfilled His promises, just as He had assured me during the vision within Kigali’s torture chambers. It became unequivocally clear that God’s benevolence, miracles, and favor had undeniably shaped my life. Filled with gratitude and a deep desire to pay it forward, I reaffirmed my commitment to invest more in supporting bright, underprivileged children from marginalized communities, including those residing in slums and urban refugee populations throughout East Africa. I firmly believed that this act was not only a means to share the message of God’s boundless love but also to provide these children with a second chance at life through access to education and opportunities for a brighter future, thus fulfilling the mission of our ministry, ANEHOPE.

Navigating the Streets of Boston Life

Upon completing my graduate studies with a stellar GPA of 4.00, I eagerly entered the competitive job market for recent graduates in bustling Boston. Initially, my ambitions leaned towards entrepreneurship, driven by the desire to put into practice the knowledge I had acquired at Brandeis University, particularly in the realms of sustainable socioeconomic development and appropriate technology. My vision encompassed creating small-scale, user-friendly, and affordable decentralized services that were energy-efficient and environmentally sustainable, with a primary focus on providing innovative fintech international money transfer services. My goal was to revolutionize the cumbersome money transfer experience, avoiding the long queues and paperwork associated with traditional services like Western Union.

I was determined to find the quickest means to send money to my mother while contributing to the American dream by establishing my own fintech company. However, every door I knocked on to present my groundbreaking idea, using the M-Pesa platform as a reference, seemed to slam shut. It appeared that I was either ahead of my time or, perhaps, because I was a black male from Africa with a distinct African accent, my potential was consistently underestimated. It was disheartening to see my ideas dismissed before I even had the chance to demonstrate how we could develop an application that would empower millions of diaspora community members in the USA to connect with over 500 million Africans who had access to cellphones at the time.

I envisioned a new era where immigrants, often working long hours without even taking proper lunch breaks, could effortlessly send money back home. In this envisioned society, clients wouldn’t need to plan or make special trips to send money to their loved ones; instead, during a lunch break or a moment of rest at home, they could simply reach for their phones. With just a few clicks, they could initiate a seamless and instant money transfer from Boston to Nairobi, Kenya, where an M-Pesa customer could receive the funds in seconds, bypassing the cumbersome processes of traditional banks, the paper trail, and the frustrations of dealing with indifferent customer care staff.

The reality I encountered was a stark contrast to my vision. In my pursuit of entrepreneurial success, I had momentarily forgotten the fact that I was a black male walking the streets of America. I had become so engrossed in my ingenuity that I overlooked the significance of my skin color, which, as it turned out, became my most conspicuous identifier and, unfortunately, my biggest obstacle.

In my quest to present my innovative ideas, I faced barriers that were hard to ignore. In some instances, I couldn’t even gain entry through office doors, as it appeared that my skin color spoke louder than my words, drowning out any potential as an inventor or a contributor of fresh ideas. I vividly recall one incident when I visited the MIT Lab in Cambridge, hoping to find opportunities to present my concept to some brilliant students who could potentially collaborate with me on it as part of their final projects. However, I found it exceptionally challenging to even ask for directions. Passersby and students alike seemed apprehensive, perhaps perceiving me as a homeless individual or a beggar on the street. More significantly, I felt the weight of being perceived as a potential threat solely due to being a young black male navigating the streets of MIT.

As the winter season settled in and my available resources dwindled, I made the difficult decision to step back from my entrepreneurial pursuits. It became clear that I didn’t fit the mold of the traditional entrepreneur that most American mainstream expected, leading me to pivot toward the conventional path of seeking employment as a means to sustain myself.

After making the pivotal decision to seek employment in the USA, I launched into an exhaustive journey of submitting numerous job applications to various prospective employers. The initial days were filled with optimism, as I had seen some of my peers from Brandeis University, with whom I had graduated, secure promising job offers within weeks. This bolstered my spirits, particularly when I considered my stellar GPA, which ranked among the best in my class. I assured myself that a job opportunity would soon come my way.

However, as time passed and I received no feedback from my applications, my optimism began to wane. Each passing day seemed to whittle away my options, and the looming winter added an extra layer of urgency, as I needed stable employment to cover my rent and living expenses. It was during this increasingly disheartening period that I reached out to a fellow Ghanaian graduate friend Mustapha from the Heller School, a peer who had also recently earned his first job interview.

My colleague, whom I considered a friend with a penchant for humor, offered me a piece of advice that initially sounded rather absurd. He suggested that I should omit my African name from my resume, explaining that it tended to deter American HR managers from even considering my application. He went on to humorously claim that even the HR software used for the initial round of applicant screening seemed to have difficulty handling African names, often leading to the rejection of African applicants. Instead, he recommended a simple adjustment: since my full name was William Adams Twayigize, he suggested that I flip it around on my resume and present myself as William T. Adams.

Initially skeptical about my friend’s suggestion, I considered it as a potential solution. I decided to reconfigure my name, retaining my African name, Twayigize, but positioning it as a middle initial, represented by “T.” Thus, my application now bore the name William T. Adams. To my amazement, the very next application I submitted under this modified name garnered the attention of a prospective employer, resulting in my first callback. Filled with excitement, I shared this turn of events with a Ghanaian friend and classmate, Mustapha, who had also encountered challenges in the job market. As I expressed my astonishment at the stark difference this small change had made, he responded with a wry comment that still resonates with me: “Welcome to the real America for black people, brother.” It was a statement that both startled and deeply unsettled me.

The following Monday arrived, and I took the bus from Waltham all the way to Waterhouse St. in Cambridge, Boston. Upon arrival, I met with the potential employer who was seeking a candidate proficient in French, English, and local languages for the establishment of a community humanitarian radio program covering the Great Lakes region of Africa. As we sat down to discuss the role, it became clear that I possessed all the qualifications they were looking for. I spoke French and Kiswahili, essential languages for the region, as well as English and local languages like Kinyarwanda, Kirundi, and Lingala.

With my deep roots in the region, having been born and raised there, I possessed an intimate understanding of its intricacies, including the complex political dynamics that could significantly influence the success of their community humanitarian media initiative. My academic background further solidified my qualifications, boasting degrees in humanitarian sustainable development. Additionally, my professional experience included working in the highest echelons of the Kenyan government’s communication office.

My educational journey had also taken me through a communication major in electronics at Daystar University, complemented by other degrees, including one in business from Southern New Hampshire University. The alignment of these credentials and experiences left both the interviewers and my professors at the Heller School thoroughly convinced that the job had been custom-tailored for me. Their confidence in my suitability for the role was evident as they instructed me to commence work the following Monday, assuring me that a formal offer letter with detailed terms would be forthcoming. As we wrapped up the meeting with warm smiles and firm handshakes, I expressed my gratitude, saying, “Thank you and God bless you.” A brief moment of silence followed my words, which I attributed to the exchange of pleasantries, and I left their office eagerly anticipating my start date the following week.

However, the elation of securing the job was short-lived, as my excitement soon turned to disappointment. On my way home, before I even had a chance to share the good news with my family, I received an email from the same interviewers. To my shock and dismay, the email conveyed their regrets and informed me that I would not be offered the job. No explanation was provided for this sudden change of heart, leaving me bewildered and disheartened. It was only when one of my professors pressed them for an explanation that I learned the disconcerting reason behind their decision. They revealed that I had mentioned God multiple times during the interview process, which they deemed a cause for concern. They explained that their organization operated as a secular entity, and my references to God during the interview raised doubts about my alignment with their values. This revelation left me deeply perplexed. I hadn’t overtly emphasized my faith during the conversation, and my personal beliefs should not have been an issue. I couldn’t help but wonder why, in their own offices, they proudly displayed themes such as “Pride Month” on their walls, which did not align with my beliefs either. It seemed inconsistent for them to take issue with my saying “God bless you,” a phrase that was integral to my identity and should have posed no threat to their organization’s secular ethos.

However, I soon found myself in a state of helplessness, recognizing that I had no control over the situation. Gazing up at the sky, I whispered my hopes and fears to God, fervently requesting divine intervention. My mother, who was in Rwanda rebuilding her life, relied on the financial support I could provide, but my own circumstances had taken a dire turn. Jobless and desperate, my prospects of securing employment in the bustling city of Boston seemed increasingly bleak. Simultaneously, I was contemplating the idea of finding a life partner, someone with whom I could build a future, fulfilling my mother’s wish for a grandchild. However, my job search had yielded no results, and the specter of unemployment loomed ominously over me.

Amid this turmoil, a glimmer of hope emerged in the form of a job recommendation from one of my professors at the Heller School. The opportunity required someone with a deep understanding of African countries, particularly Tanzania, Uganda, Botswana, South Africa, Haiti, and Ghana. The urgency of the position was evident, as I arrived for the interview to find a sizable pool of applicants, mostly Americans. Doubts crept in, and I began to question my chances amidst this competition. The interview panel consisted of five individuals who posed questions about my skills and how they would contribute to their work in Africa. As the interview concluded, I had convinced myself that this job was beyond my reach. I even contemplated stopping by a Best Buy store on my way home to inquire about a casual job, convinced that I didn’t fit the mold of what America sought in its professionals. In the closing moments of the interview, as we exchanged handshakes and words of gratitude, I unconsciously uttered my trademark phrase, “Thank you and God bless you,” before departing from the room.

As I stood at the bustling Bus Stop along Longwood Ave at Binney St, my mind was consumed by thoughts about the trajectory of my life in America after completing my studies. I had been contemplating a visit to the Best Buy store in Watertown, Boston, with hopes of inquiring about a casual job to make ends meet. It was in this contemplative moment that my phone unexpectedly rang, shattering the quiet of my reverie. On the other end of the line was a lady who introduced herself and inquired about speaking to me. Anxiously, I confirmed that I was indeed the person she sought. She asked if I was far from her office, and I informed her that I was merely a couple of blocks away, waiting for the bus to take me home. Without hesitation, she inquired if I would be willing to return to her office for another interview. I readily accepted the offer, promptly made my way to her office, and upon arrival, she wasted no time in asking if I wanted the job and if I could commence work the following day.

My excitement was palpable as I expressed my eagerness to start working, emphasizing the urgency of my need for employment. I confided in her that I had been contemplating taking a manual job at Best Buy, driven by the pressing need to cover my bills. To my surprise, she revealed that in all her years at the office, which amounted to close to 15, I was the first person to ever say, “God bless you.” These words took on profound significance as she explained the challenging circumstances her child was facing, despite their wealth and education, leading them to seek divine intervention. She recognized my skills and expertise as valuable assets for their research and expressed her belief that I could make a meaningful contribution. This moment was particularly striking because just the previous week, I had experienced a job interview where I was convinced I had secured the position, only to be denied due to mentioning God in the conversation. Now, in a situation where my hope was dwindling, it was my acknowledgment of God that had paved the way for this unexpected job offer, making me realize that indeed, God was in control.

Upon my arrival at Boston International Airport, a rush of memories flooded in – the vivid recollection of the UNHCR’s intervention at Mvenge Airport in Gabon, where we were deceived into thinking they were facilitating our resettlement to Boston, USA. Instead, they led us to a nightmarish ordeal in a torture chamber, seemingly destined to end our lives. Yet, here I stand, a decade later, in the very city where those broken promises were supposed to lead us astray. It’s a powerful reminder that despite the past’s darkness, God’s faithfulness has ultimately prevailed, bringing me to Boston as a testament to the fulfillment of His promises.

Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM

Life In America

Life in the USA

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In My Mother’s Arms Again

Navigating the Streets of Boston Life

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