As I reflect at the Lincoln Memorial and hearing the call for justice and dignity makes me think about belonging, being excluded, and the universal longing for a place to call “home.” Dr. King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech inspires hope, but my thoughts grow out of my own experiences of being treated like an outsider. It makes me wonder—who gets to be part of “we”? These feelings show up in public places like roads and borders, but also in personal spaces like family life. The gap between where I live and where I’m allowed to feel like I belong fuels my story. My personal memories—and even imagined scenarios—shine a light on the invisible cracks in society. Facing judgment and being silenced has taught me how much social norms can shape emotions like hope or exhaustion. For me, “home” isn’t a fixed place; it’s an ongoing struggle and a hope that refuses to settle for disrespect.
Being far from home isn’t just about physical distance. It’s also about feeling out of place. Streets and familiar voices can feel strange, like they’re hidden under a layer of unfamiliarity. After living in the UK for ten years, I was told to “go back home” outside an immigration office. That comment shook me, making the sidewalk under my feet feel like contested ground. Studies show that being uprooted can mess with your sense of normalcy and even disrupt your mental state. And even when you want to go back, it hits you that returning doesn’t guarantee you’ll feel at home again. Home can fall apart, even in your own country. Once, at a family gathering in Kigali, my cousin hesitated before saying my name. It was like she wasn’t sure how to place me, and the air felt heavy with unspoken judgment. That’s the thing about being an outsider—it’s not just one event. It’s a feeling that follows you, shaping how you see the world and how others see you.
Exile becomes even harder when speaking out is treated like a crime. During and after the Rwandan war (1990–1994) and the Congo war (1996–2000), intimidation became normal. People who voiced different opinions or questioned authority were excluded. Elections were rigged, and laws were bent to silence minority voices in Rwanda. In Congo, international involvement often propped up corrupt leaders instead of helping people recover. This mindset—treating dissent as treason—played a big role in justifying the genocide and still lingers today. Families remain broken, mourning continues, and justice feels incomplete. Even remembering the past feels monitored, reminding us how fragile the act of speaking out can be.
These experiences taught me that human rights aren’t just abstract ideas—they’re lived realities. My mixed Tutsi-Hutu background made my family a target during the conflicts. Even years later, being told to “go back home” reminded me how easily belonging can unravel, no matter what papers you carry. This pushed me to advocate for better policies that protect free speech, ensure fair representation, and uphold due process for marginalized people. Rwanda’s post-conflict society shows how official stories often ignore diverse perspectives, shutting down meaningful dialogue. Bosnia-Herzegovina faces similar challenges, where school curriculum and government systems either promote unity or deepen divisions. Real change comes from repairing these divides—legally, socially, and culturally—by protecting minority voices and honoring all parts of history.
Growing up with my mixed heritage meant danger during the conflicts. Something as simple as a name could determine whether you lived or died. I carry memories of those dangers—like the beatings I endured—that taught me to approach every introduction with care. Years later, standing outside that immigration office in the UK and hearing “go back home” felt like an echo of those days. Even after a decade in the country, I felt like I didn’t fully belong. Research shows that survivors often feel like outsiders within their own communities, shaped by both official stories and others’ prejudices. At family gatherings, this would surface in pointed questions, like an aunt asking which side of the conflict my mother’s family supported. These moments of mistrust—whether in Kigali or London —revealed how discrimination can follow you, just in different forms.
At a cousin’s wedding in Kigali, even the seating chart reflected these tensions. A planner asked where my family could sit without causing trouble. I chose a quiet corner, but the speeches about sacrifice and loss reminded me to stay careful with my reactions. One uncle joked that people with “two doors” should “pick one,” and the laughter quickly faded into an awkward silence. These moments reflect how stereotypes and group tensions shape behavior, as research shows. Later, when a cousin commented on my “foreign” accent, it hit me that even the way I spoke marked me as different. It narrowed what I could say and how I could act without triggering judgment. I left the wedding early, but the weight of that evening stayed with me long after.
This is my reality—displacement as a way of life. It’s a constant balancing act, whether on a public sidewalk or at a family dinner. The memory of exclusion lingers, mixed with the desire to return. But going back isn’t simple. Laws, memories, and daily life keep redrawing the lines that divide us. Still, the dream of equality keeps me moving forward. It’s a vision of a future where home isn’t a place of division but a shared promise. In that future, walking the streets of Kigali would feel like being embraced, not questioned. In the UK , “go back home” would lose its power because home would mean belonging for everyone—with no conditions, no fear, and no exceptions.
