Arriving in America

Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM

ARRIVING IN THE “LAND OF THE FREE”

Leaving for America

It is truly remarkable how the courses of our lives can take unforeseen and purposeful turns. Proverbs 16:9 (AMP) wisely reminds us that “A man’s mind plans his way [as he journeys through life], but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.” Reflecting on my own life journey, the prospect of immigrating to America had never once entered my thoughts, particularly in light of the harrowing ordeals we endured as Hutu refugees within the depths of the Congolese jungle, where we suffered merciless massacres and, prior to that, in Gabon in July 1997. During that dark time, the UNHCR forcibly took custody of us, refugees from Rwanda, Burundi, and Zaire, returning us to Kagame’s regime where we met a cruel fate, facing unimaginable suffering that continues to haunt me. Furthermore, the knowledge of Kagame’s regime, closely associated with the Bill Clinton administration, being responsible for so much anguish, firmly deterred any considerations of the USA as a potential destination. While many refugees aspired to resettle in the USA, I personally never entertained such thoughts due to the haunting memories of my past. Nevertheless, our human perspective often affords us only a limited view of life’s intricate tapestry, akin to navigating city streets, but God, in His boundless wisdom, surveys our lives from a panoramic and comprehensive viewpoint, considering every facet of our environment and circumstances.

This is where God’s grand design began to reveal itself, as He had a unique plan in store for my life, viewing it from His divine perspective rather than my own. After completing my studies at Daystar University in Kenya, my American friends, Dr. Tom H. Englund and his dedicated wife, Sue, remained resolute in their commitment to enhancing my life, with a primary focus on my safety and the quest for a true place to call home. As a Rwandan refugee residing in Kenya, my existence was still shadowed by the constant threat to my life, given that the Kagame regime maintained hit squads within Kenya, targeting Rwandan refugees like myself. Moreover, the obstacles facing refugees were manifold, with the prospect of obtaining legal documentation for property ownership, establishing a family, making investments, and securing a stable future appearing as formidable and uncertain challenges. Paramount among these concerns was the safety of Rwandan refugees, including myself. The Kigali government had a history of pursuing Rwandan Hutu refugees within Kenya, resorting to assassinations as a means of suppressing opposition. It was not long ago that two prominent Hutu politicians, Seth Sendashonga and Colonel Theoneste Lizinde, met tragic fates in Kenya at the hands of Kagame’s assassination squad operating out of Nairobi.

As my friends and I made the journey from Nairobi to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport (JKIA), our conversation centered on our experiences and lives in Nairobi, a city that had generously embraced us as refugees from Rwanda. We reminisced about Kenya’s protective stance against Kagame’s numerous attempts to deport Rwandan refugees living within its borders and how we had managed to survive for years without proper documentation, defying international campaigns aimed at displacing us. Amidst our reflections on the challenges of refugee life in Nairobi, we passed by the Nairobi National Park, where zebras and gazelles roamed freely, serving as a poignant reminder of Kenya’s natural beauty and the warmth of its people. Nairobi National Park stands as a unique gem, being the only wildlife park situated within a capital city. Located just 10 kilometers south of Nairobi’s bustling downtown area, it offers the rare spectacle of spotting wildlife against a backdrop of urban landscapes—a testament to the harmonious coexistence of nature and the metropolis.

In 2009, I bid farewell to the place I had called home, embarking on a journey to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport (JKIA), the largest and busiest airport in East Africa, situated in Nairobi, Kenya’s capital. Located in the Embakasi suburbs, approximately 18 kilometers southeast of the bustling Central Business District, JKIA serves as a global gateway, hosting flights to over 50 countries across the world. Originally known as Embakasi Airport, its name was changed to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in 1978 in honor of Kenya’s first president and prime minister, Jomo Kenyatta. As my vehicle passed through the gates of JKIA, my emotions were a swirling mix of anticipation, excitement, and awe. It was a tangible realization of God’s promises coming to fruition in my life. Among the crowd were young refugees who had become friends over the years, many of whom had arrived in Kenya between 1994 and 2000, primarily from Rwanda. They had witnessed God’s transformative work, taking me from a destitute refugee living on the streets of Kenya to a student at the most prestigious Christian university in the country, and later, a position in the highest echelons of government where we collaborated on initiatives to advance governmental policies. Now, I was leaving them behind, bound for the United States, the most powerful nation on Earth. Their presence served as a poignant reminder of God’s boundless love and favor. In that moment, humbled by His grace, I pledged to extend a helping hand to the less privileged whenever I could, viewing it as my way of ministering for God.

Given these circumstances, the Englunds persisted in their belief that my security was of paramount importance, and relocating to the USA could address three critical issues. Firstly, it would provide me with a country to call home, offering a sense of belonging and eventually citizenship that I had been denied as a stateless individual in Kenya. Secondly, it would afford me a peaceful environment where the threat of Kigali assassins would be distant, as I would be protected in the United States. Lastly, coming to the USA would open doors to superior educational opportunities and improved employment prospects, allowing me to settle down and establish my own family in a country known for its promise of a brighter future.

The Englunds had been quietly working behind the scenes, diligently exploring opportunities to secure my admission to graduate schools in the USA, with a particular focus on institutions near their own home. Their ultimate objective was to facilitate a smooth transition for me as I embarked on my journey as a graduate student in the United States. During their visit to my graduation ceremony in Nairobi, they introduced the idea of my relocating to the USA, firmly convinced that pursuing further studies there and seeking asylum would markedly enhance the quality of my life. The swift transformation from this concept to actionable steps was remarkable. The Englunds provided invaluable assistance by recommending several schools to which I could apply, guiding me through the application process. As a result, I submitted my application to Southern New Hampshire University, a choice made more practical by their gracious offer to provide me with a room in their welcoming home, allowing me to study and live with them. I also pursued scholarships and, with their unwavering support, gained admission and secured financial aid. With the Englunds generously covering the remaining school fees, my path to the USA was clear. It was not just a wonderful experience but also a testament to the extraordinary love and compassion they showed me, a love that mended the brokenness in my heart and soul, making me whole once more.

With all the meticulous arrangements expertly managed by the Englunds, I promptly scheduled a visa appointment at the Nairobi US Embassy. The process was expedited, courtesy of the comprehensive financial documentation thoughtfully presented by the Englunds, which unequivocally demonstrated their unwavering commitment to supporting me throughout my studies at Southern New Hampshire University. Astoundingly, my visa interview occurred a full week before the start of classes in the USA. Consequently, I bid farewell to Kenya on a Friday, landing at Boston International Airport the following Saturday, where the Englunds welcomed me with open arms and warm hearts. On the subsequent Sunday, we attended church together, not only to worship alongside their friends who were aware of my circumstances and had fervently prayed for a successful visa process but also to express profound gratitude to God for orchestrating such a remarkably smooth journey. It was becoming increasingly apparent that God’s plan for me, as unveiled through visions during my harrowing time in the Kigali torture chamber, was continuing to unfold in the most extraordinary of ways.

Jomo Kenyatta International Airport

As I bid farewell to my friends at JKIA airport in Nairobi and embarked on the journey to the USA, my mind buzzed with a tumultuous array of thoughts, but none greater than an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the boundless grace of our benevolent God. It was as though the threads of my life’s tapestry wove me back to the darkest hours in Kigali’s torturous chambers, where General Karake’s ominous demands for the lives of at least forty Hutu refugees each day cast an unrelenting shadow over my existence. I vividly recalled the deep-seated conviction that my survival within the merciless grasp of Tutsi soldiers in Kigali wouldn’t extend beyond a mere fortnight. From that harrowing abyss, my thoughts carried me to the mortuary where the Tutsis had thrown my body, awaiting mass burial, and then my mind swayed me toward the miraculous moment of awakening in the Red Cross clinic in Kigali, where some compassionate Red Cross volunteers found me amidst the deceased, offering salvation and a second chance at life.

In that poignant moment of parting at JKIA airport in Nairobi, as I set forth on my journey to the USA, the stark reality of my family’s absence descended upon me. Yet, within the expansive realm of God’s infinite grace, I found solace in the presence of surrogate parents, divinely woven into the tapestry of my life, ensuring that I lacked for nothing. They bestowed upon me a care and provision that surpassed even the capacity of my biological parents. My thoughts retraced their path to a vision born amidst the harrowing confines of the Kigali torture chamber, a guiding light beckoning me toward the East, a promised land brimming with unprecedented peace and blessings. Reflecting on the remarkable path God had charted for me in Kenya, guiding me to Daystar University and a prestigious role in the highest echelons of the nation, my emotions surged, and tears of joy flowed unbridled down my cheeks. In this moment of profound gratitude, I whispered thanks to the divine presence within me, my eyes raised heavenward, acknowledging the boundless expanse above, and offering heartfelt appreciation for the faithful fulfillment of His promises. With a heart overflowing with gratitude, I bade farewell to those who had accompanied me to JKIA, with the hope of reuniting with them once more. For in the grand tapestry of this extraordinary tale of grace, it was God alone who held the quill.

Seeing the sign for Terminal 1 International Departures at JKIA was a powerful confirmation that the dreams and visions I had held were indeed materializing. Jomo Kenyatta International Airport’s strategic location offers unobstructed views of the runway, especially on clear days when one can even catch a glimpse of Mount Meru in Tanzania, located 220 kilometers away, as well as Mount Kilimanjaro, situated 213 kilometers away, and the majestic Mount Kenya. The airport comprises two terminals, with Terminal 1 divided into four distinct sections, denoted as 1A, 1B, 1C, and 1E. This particular terminal serves as the hub for international arrivals and departures. On that momentous day, I found myself among the privileged few who would pass through this gate on my journey to the “Land of the Free.”

Leaving Kenya, I embarked on my journey to the USA with Ethiopian Airlines, a daunting long-distance voyage spanning thousands of kilometers without respite. However, this sojourn also unfolded as a profound experience, a reminder of the omnipresent hand of God. As we soared through the boundless sky, the vastness of the heavens served as a poignant testament to the miracles He can bestow upon one’s life when divinely chosen.

Landing In Boston

As the plane made its final descent onto the runway at Boston Logan International Airport, a whirlwind of emotions surged within me, creating a powerful mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. I knew that the beloved Englunds were waiting for me at the airport entrance, and the thought of finally meeting them and expressing my heartfelt gratitude for their incredible sacrifices filled me with overwhelming joy. Their unwavering support was a gift I felt I could never fully deserve. I couldn’t help but reflect on the remarkable journey that had brought me here—a journey spanning thousands of miles from my second home in Kenya. In Kenya, I had found solace and acceptance, an affirmation of my humanity, during a time when Rwanda’s cruel intent was to obliterate my very existence. In Rwanda, the people I had once considered as close as siblings had turned against me, becoming agents of my erasure from the face of this planet. Now, I stood at the threshold of a new and extraordinary chapter in my life. I was on the cusp of embarking on a journey as an international graduate student in the United States—a country I had only encountered through news, movies, and books. The anticipation of stepping onto American soil and beginning this adventure was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking, a world of new experiences awaiting me.

During my youth, I had watched in sheer awe as giants like Rambo, Mike Tyson, and the legendary Muhammad Ali graced American soil on my television screen, their larger-than-life presence captivating my imagination. I had also absorbed knowledge in classrooms that celebrated Americans as the first humans to set foot on the moon—an indelible mark of their extraordinary achievements. The prospect of personally stepping onto this remarkable land was nothing short of astounding. In my eyes, America was a nation of captivating dualities—an exalted place I deeply admired for its superpower status in both financial and military realms, its vast array of opportunities, and the benevolence of its Christian institutions, which had established numerous Protestant churches, schools, and health clinics in my village. These organizations, through programs like Compassion International’s, Operation Christmas Gifts, and the 700 Clubs, had not only transformed lives but also offered support to countless children. However, America was also a country I approached with trepidation because the reverberations of bombs in our refugee camps in the Democratic Republic of Congo often bore a connection to American taxpayers, tangled within political propaganda that sometimes complicated the plight of Rwandan refugees amid the relentless massacres in the Congo forests. Despite these complex feelings, here I stood, just steps away from being welcomed to this beautiful land inhabited by its remarkable people.

Indeed, it felt as if I were living out God’s masterplan for my life, guided by His boundless grace and in perfect alignment with His divine purpose and promises. Here I stood, being warmly welcomed into “the Land of the Free” and the Brave,” with my first destination in the USA bearing the bold motto, “Live Free Or Die.” It was as though God had orchestrated this journey with perfect foresight, recognizing what my heart needed most. As I contemplated this incredible odyssey, my soul overflowed with tears of joy. In that poignant moment, I marveled at the profound awesomeness of God, recalling the words from Isaiah 55:8-9 (NIV) that had always been a source of comfort: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways… As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” Now, any lingering doubts were swept away, replaced by unwavering conviction that this path was undoubtedly what God had intended for my life at this pivotal moment in its history.

For any international traveler, the first encounter with culture shock in a new country often unfolds at the airport, serving as a window into the heart of the nation’s character. In my case, the American culture shock greeted me as soon as I arrived at Boston Logan International Airport. As I made my way towards the immigration desk, preparing for clearance during my inaugural entry into the USA, I was approached by an immigration officer who appeared Asian and Chinese in origin. He handed me my Form I-94, the Arrival-Departure Record Card used by U.S. Customs and Border Protection to monitor the arrivals and departures of non-U.S. citizens and lawful permanent residents. He posed a few questions and then stamped my Refugee Travel Document before warmly saying, “Welcome to America.”

Beside him, a physically imposing African American officer, seemingly the supervisor, had keenly observed my nervousness. When the customs officer extended his welcome, I nervously replied with gratitude. At that moment, I turned my gaze toward the African American officer, seeking reassurance, and was met with a warm smile. It was then that I began to understand the essence of America as a “melting pot,” a diverse nation that welcomed people from all corners of the globe.

As our flight began its descent through the Boston sky, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swept over me. Reflecting on the hardships of my youth, I marveled at the journey that had brought me to this point – en route to study in a country renowned for its world-class universities. The stark contrast between the painful memories of my past and the promising future ahead left me humbled and awe-struck by the mysterious workings of fate. Transitioning from a life of misery to becoming a graduate student in America felt like an intricate tapestry only God could weave, transcending understanding and offering a testament to the inexplicable grace of divine providence.

Once I had been cleared by the immigration officer, I proceeded towards the luggage collection section. Following the directional signs, I descended the stairs to retrieve my baggage, which, thanks to the Englunds’ sagacious advice, wasn’t laden with an excessive number of items. They had generously offered to assist me with shopping in the USA rather than burdening me with carrying everything from Nairobi. As I navigated the bustling corridors and hallways of the airport, something novel and unfamiliar caught my attention. Although I was well-versed in the use of elevators and escalators due to prior experiences, a distinctive feature stood out at Boston Airport—an ingenious contraption known as a moving walkway or a travelator, a concept I had never encountered before. This extraordinary innovation allowed passengers to step onto it and effortlessly traverse significant distances without exerting much physical effort. However, because of the long distances involved in navigating Boston Airport, my legs started to weaken and become painful. I felt the need for assistance with walking, as I could now only manage moderate distances without relying on crutches. Stepping onto the travelator, I was whisked seamlessly through the airport corridors, and I couldn’t help but find it amusing how people on it seemed to glide as if they were moonwalking. Eventually, I reached the luggage collection area, retrieved my belongings, and made my way out of the airport.

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.

Breathing the Boston Air

As the automatic doors of the airport swung open wide, I was met with a blast of hot and humid air, as if I had been unexpectedly thrust into a sauna or spa. Breathing felt strange, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening. Little did I know that this was merely a taste of the heat, as the summer had already transitioned into fall. However, my initial discomfort was quickly forgotten when I saw the warm and welcoming smiles of Dr. Tom and Sue Englund. Their presence made me feel like I was already at home in this new land, providing me with a sense of having parents again. It was remarkable how the Englunds, being close in age to my late parents, especially my father who was tragically killed by Tutsi soldiers in northern Rwanda in 1998, stepped into the role of my American parents with such warmth and dedication. Their sacrifices knew no bounds as they did everything in their power to make me feel loved and welcomed.

We then proceeded to the car, and the drive from Boston to New Hampshire was a breathtaking experience. It was a journey filled with profound significance, considering my previous traumatic experience. In July 1997, at the Mvenge International Airport, the UNHCR director in Gabon had deceived us, promising resettlement to Boston in the USA as refugees to continue our education in a peaceful environment. Yet, she ultimately betrayed us, returning us to our oppressors in Rwanda, where we faced merciless slaughter. Now, 12 years later, I was driving on the streets of Boston not as a refugee, but as a graduate student in the USA. As these thoughts played through my mind, I gazed out the window and couldn’t help but marvel at the high-rises and the traffic along the highways; everything seemed so different and fascinating.

As we left the highway connecting Boston to Maine and Canada, we found ourselves in the charming historical town of Concord, where colonial architecture graced the streets, nestled alongside the flowing Merrimack River. This river, a crucial water source that once powered the early industrial cities of New England, held a profound significance in shaping the region’s history. Its waters had once served as the lifeblood of Lowell’s renowned textile mills, standing as a testament to its pivotal role in the industrial revolution. As we strolled through this town, my dear friends, the Englund family, enriched my experience with their captivating narratives about its rich history, providing me with a profound understanding and appreciation for the place we were exploring.

Before we continued our journey to their home, the Englunds decided to treat me to a delightful meal at their favorite restaurant, Olive Garden Italian Restaurant along Loudon Rd. It was an early dinner, a much-needed reprieve after our long journey from Boston to New Hampshire, which included a lengthy flight. The restaurant exuded a lively, family-friendly atmosphere and was renowned for its diverse selection of pastas and salads—a cuisine that was somewhat unfamiliar to those of us from Africa. However, my appetite was soaring after the extended flight, and I was determined to savor every bite of these delectable dishes. I relished the opportunity to indulge in pastas and salads, a treat that left my taste buds thoroughly satisfied.

We soon resumed our journey to their suburban haven nestled on the outskirts of Concord Town. The Englund family, radiating compassion and boundless generosity, ensured that my stay with them was an experience beyond the ordinary. They extended a heartfelt invitation into their Christian abode, a residence ensconced in the natural splendor of New England’s landscapes. Their house, a splendid architectural relic hailing from the 1800s, bore witness to the passage of time and history, imparting an enchanting allure to my sojourn.

Within the Englund household, two remarkable souls illuminated their abode with their welcoming and open-hearted nature. Brent and Jessica, both of kindred age, exuded a vibrant spirit that readily embraced visitors from diverse backgrounds and cultural experiences. Brent, a culinary virtuoso whose discerning palate could decipher the finest nuances of wines, held an unwavering passion for the world’s beautiful game, soccer. He lovingly poured his enthusiasm into mentoring aspiring high school soccer talents, igniting their dreams.

In parallel, Jessica followed her profound calling as a veterinarian, wholeheartedly dedicating herself to the welfare of animals. Her commitment ran deep, a devotion she had fortuitously deepened through a transformative internship in Uganda during her college years. As I immersed myself in the Englund family’s warm and nurturing Christian enclave, their residence ceased to be merely a haven during my stay; instead, it blossomed into a sanctuary where my faith thrived amidst the vibrant colors of their welcoming hearts.

Settling into the Englund household was like stepping into a vibrant tapestry of experiences that colored my daily life. Dr. Tom and Sue Englund welcomed me with open arms, embracing me as if I were one of their own children. This heartwarming gesture swiftly banished any lingering traces of homesickness that might have clung to my spirit. A few years prior, I had humbly asked if they would be comfortable with the affectionate titles of “Papa Tom” and “Mama Sue,” in keeping with my culture’s tradition of bestowing such honor on individuals of their age and the profound role they played in my life. Their gracious acceptance warmed my heart, and from that moment on, they became the beloved Papa Tom and Mama Sue.

Stepping into New Hampshire, the greeting on the sign, “Live Free or Die,” struck me with profound resonance. It spoke of more than just a state motto; it encapsulated a profound philosophy. The message conveyed that one’s rights, freedoms, and individual voice remain vibrant as long as the choice to “Live Free” is embraced. It served as a poignant reminder that tremendous freedom is intertwined with substantial courage and an even weightier responsibility. As someone who had traversed nations in search of refuge, this proclamation stirred an overwhelming sense of joy within me. Instantly, I recognized that I had indeed set foot in the true land of liberty, a place where the spirit of freedom soars unrestricted.

Exploring the charming city of Concord was a delightful journey. As we arrived, my friends guided me through its streets lined with impressive 19th century architecture, highlighted by the majestic capital building that proudly represents the county’s historical significance. Concord’s rich history as a hub for carriages and stagecoaches in the 19th century still resonates today. I was intrigued to discover that Concord, now the capital of New Hampshire, was once a part of Massachusetts.

Experiencing America

As I embarked on my voyage into the American way of life, the kaleidoscope of cultural experiences slowly unfurled before me in all its vibrant hues. Juggling my studies at Southern New Hampshire University, I was blessed with the unwavering support of Dr. Tom and Sue Englund, who selflessly ensured my academic journey was complemented by their steadfast companionship. In this thrilling new chapter of my life, I stumbled upon an unexpected treasure – a newfound appreciation for American cuisine that would soon carve a special place within my heart. The magic of Mama Sue’s kitchen transcended borders and cultures, blending the flavors of their Swedish and Danish heritage with the rich tapestry of their Californian roots. Each dish that emerged from her skilled hands was nothing short of culinary marvel, a testament to the beautiful fusion of traditions that adorned our dining table.

Mama Sue unveiled some of her most cherished culinary secrets, tantalizing our taste buds with mouthwatering cornbread, delectable pumpkin bread, and a homemade granola that bordered on the divine. Opening the lid of that granola container was akin to releasing an aromatic symphony, with each scent note inviting your senses to the morning table. Mama Sue’s homemade granola was an exclusive treasure, bearing her unique brand that could not be found anywhere else on this planet but within the comforting confines of her kitchen. Whenever the pangs of nostalgia for Kenyan and Rwandan cuisine struck, the cornbread, pumpkin bread, and Mama Sue’s granola were my culinary refuge.

As the holiday season approached, the Englund family wasted no time in immersing me in the wonders of New Hampshire. We embarked on captivating adventures that whisked us away to picturesque lakes like Ossipee and Winnipesaukee, where the breathtaking beauty of nature unfolded before our eyes, painting the landscape with vibrant hues. Our explorations also led us to historical sites, each echoing with the profound legacy of General Lafayette and his pivotal role in the American Revolution, thus forging a connection to the rich tapestry of American history. Our journeys extended to enchanting places such as Canterbury Shaker Village, a well-preserved relic dating back to the 1790s, renowned as the most authentic of all Shaker communities in America. We also ventured to Star Island, nestled on the border of Maine and New Hampshire, which officially became a part of Rye’s history in 1876.

With every new experience, I felt more deeply woven into the tapestry of the Englund family, cherished for who I was, and nurtured by their boundless love, wisdom, and unwavering Christian values. Our excursions during the enchanting New Hampshire fall season became a cherished tradition, a vibrant burst of color that swept us into nature’s embrace. As we ventured along remarkable trails through leaves that painted the ground with their fiery hues, it was like strolling through a living, breathing painting. The trees, dressed in shades of red, gold, and orange, bid a captivating farewell to the gentle autumn before the unforgiving winter descended upon the northern hemisphere, freezing everything in its icy grip, even life beneath the oceans.

These outings often culminated at the Englund’s rustic cottage by the serene banks of Lake Ossipee, a tranquil haven that held the fondest memories of family gatherings. Relatives from as far as California, Pennsylvania, and Minnesota would journey to this idyllic spot, gathering annually to welcome Thanksgiving and exchange heartfelt wishes for the forthcoming Merry Christmas, as December unfolded, embracing the onset of winter. This was a stark contrast to the predictable African weather, where the sun graced the skies throughout the day, and nightfall brought the reassuring certainty of its return. In New England, during the Christmas season, time seemed to pause, granting moments that felt like eternity.

During the Christmas season at the Englund household, a cherished tradition unfolded, one that spoke volumes of their rich heritage and enduring love. Dr. Tom and Sue Englund, whose parents had immigrated to the USA from Europe, brought the flavors of Sweden and Denmark into their American home during this special time of year. They lovingly combined these Scandinavian influences, utilizing their favorite ingredients to create a culinary tapestry that held the memories of their beloved parents close. Each year, Papa Tom embarked on a journey of approximately four hours to reach a Swedish market in Massachusetts, where he meticulously selected the ingredients necessary to assist Mama Sue in crafting marvelous Swedish Christmas favorites. Moreover, what left an indelible mark on my heart was their steadfast commitment to preserving their love story. For over 50 years of marriage, Papa Tom and Mama Sue celebrated their enduring affection with a distinctive Swedish-themed Christmas plate, ordered from Sweden every year. Even in the face of illness, Papa Tom ensured that Mama Sue received her special decorative plate, which joined the others adorning the walls of their historic 1800s home, creating a poignant testament to their unwavering love.

On my first day in the USA, a vibrant tapestry of colors painted my world as I found myself in the charming city of Concord, New Hampshire. The air was crisp and tinged with the unmistakable scent of fall, as golden leaves gracefully descended from trees, forming a colorful carpet beneath my feet. The Englunds, my newfound American family, welcomed me to this new land of freedom with open arms. We ventured to the Olive Garden Restaurant on Loudon Road, a lively establishment that echoed with the laughter of families and the clinking of cutlery. Here, in the heart of New Hampshire, I felt the weight of fear and persecution that had shadowed my past life in Rwanda lift, replaced by a profound sense of security and liberation. The motto of this great state, “LIVE FREE OR DIE,” resonated deeply within me, igniting a fervent desire to embrace this newfound freedom. Sitting beside the Englunds, savoring every bite of Italian pasta, I marveled at the divine orchestration of my life’s journey. Having lost my African parents in the brutal conflicts of Rwanda, I now found myself under the care of American parents, ready to guide me on the path that God had envisioned for me.

Embarking on my journey from Boston to New Hampshire, I found myself traveling northward, my companions leading us off the superhighway and into the enchanting woods. Amidst this diversion, a breathtaking tapestry of landscapes unfurled before my eyes, initially rendering me disoriented due to the surreal beauty that surrounded me. The approaching Fall season painted the foliage in vibrant hues, a spectrum of colors reminiscent of the scenes on cherished Christmas cards from friends. Each moment was an encounter with magnificence, yet the pinnacle of wonderment arrived with my first encounter of snowfall.

As I immersed myself in the enchanting beauty of New England and pursued my studies at the University of Southern New Hampshire, an incessant, haunting thought gnawed at my soul like a relentless shadow, casting a pall over even the most joyful moments. It whispered in my mind, a relentless refrain: “Where is my mother now? Is she still among the living, or has she too been claimed by the cold grasp of death in the unforgiving Congolese wilderness? What fate befell her and my surviving siblings, those who had miraculously escaped the clutches of General Kagame’s violence?” When the harsh reality hit me, that my mother remained a hunted soul in the dense, unforgiving forests of Congo, all the joys of my newfound life in America were swept away like fragile chaff carried away by a gentle breeze.

The knowledge that I could not savor the grace of God’s blessings with my biological mother, a woman who carried me in her womb for nine months, a woman who sacrificed everything so that I could be this successful, and woman who is a source of my life, and her survival in the dense forests of Ituri had been confirmed by various sources before my departure from Kenya, was a torment that clung to my every waking moment. I bore the heavy burden of responsibility, a weight that pressed upon my chest like an unyielding boulder, urging me to embark on a quest to find her, to seek her amidst the perilous unknown. If she had been taken by the cruel hand of death, I yearned for the closure that only the discovery of her fate could bring.

However, another pragmatic notion began to take root in my mind, one that urged me to prioritize my education, establish a stable career, and then venture into the perilous journey of searching for my mother. This idea became an unwavering anchor, securing me to my studies while I carried the heavy burden of my mother’s uncertain fate. Yet, there were moments when this burden felt overwhelmingly heavy, pushing me to seek solace beneath the starry New England sky, where the constellations were far fewer than those I had known in Africa. Beside the tranquil swimming pool, I would engage in hushed conversations with those distant celestial lights, beseeching them to unveil the secrets of the Congolese jungle and lead me to my mother and surviving siblings. My heart ached for answers, and the burning desire to amass the necessary resources for a journey to Congo, to uncover any trace of my beloved family, consumed my every thought. Nevertheless, the world remained silent, offering neither comfort nor answers. In the midst of this tumultuous struggle, I realized the importance of maintaining my composure, for I did not wish to let down the incredible people who had sacrificed so much to bring happiness into my life, a happiness that Rwanda had relentlessly tried to steal away.

Another idea began to take root in my mind, a plan to secure the means to search for my mother in the depths of the Congolese forest. This notion involved seeking another full scholarship that not only covered my educational expenses but also provided me with some pocket money, enabling me to live closer to opportunities where I could work, such as flipping burgers at McDonald’s, and gradually save enough funds for my quest to Africa. Having obtained asylum in the USA and attended school there, I was eligible to work without the need for additional visa permissions. With determination, I scoured the internet for different universities in the area and stumbled upon Brandeis University, specifically its Heller School of Management and Policy, which particularly appealed to me. The school’s mission to make graduate education accessible to individuals from the global south resonated deeply with my aspirations. I submitted my application and was overjoyed to be accepted, receiving a generous scholarship. The Englund family shared in my excitement, thrilled that I had the opportunity to attend such a prestigious institution. The following year, I relocated to Waltham in Boston to continue my education at Brandeis University while still maintaining regular visits to the Englund family every other weekend.

Certainly! In this heartwarming story, Papa Tom and Mama Sue’s farmhouse in Dunbarton, New Hampshire, served as a haven of tradition and love, where the echoes of generations past resonated in its every corner. However, the couple’s love for adventure drew them to a lakeside cottage on the serene shores of Lake Ossipee. As fall’s fiery hues painted the landscape, they embarked on boat journeys with their family, forming deeper connections and creating lasting memories. This annual ritual united them with Brent, Jessica, and their families, forging a tight-knit bond amidst nature’s breathtaking beauty. Amidst these moments, the author couldn’t help but feel immense gratitude to the Creator for orchestrating such a beautiful and love-filled chapter in their life’s story.

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DR. WILLIAM

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