Thriving Through Trials

Every day, I wake up with a fire in my heart to defend the rights of refugees and asylum seekers. It is more than a job, It’s a calling. But some days, like today, I feel like I’m screaming into the void.

Last week, I escalated a case involving asylum seekers from the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). They arrived at the Kasumulu border in Karonga District, Malawi. Instead of being processed and taken to the official reception center, they were misled. One evening, immigration officers loaded them onto trucks, and drove them nearly 200 kilometers to a remote border in Chitipa District, the tri-point between Malawi, Tanzania, and Zambia.

They were told they were nearing Dzaleka Refugee Camp, but that a bridge was broken, so they would need to continue on foot while the trucks returned. When daylight came, they realized they have been betrayed by the very people mandated to protect them. Panic set in. Some fled. Out of 202, only about 100 remained.

Those who stayed walked to the nearest police station in Kameme village. There, local villagers despite their own poverty, showed incredible generosity, gathering food to feed the strangers abandoned by educated, government officials.

Days later, the group was once again loaded into a truck. Elderly women and nursing mothers were put into a Land Cruiser. They passed Karonga—the rightful reception point and were instead taken to a remote, unofficial crossing. In confusion and fear, they were forced into canoes and made to cross into Tanzania using an uncharted, illegal route.

Some resisted. They screamed. They cried. They pleaded. But their voices were drowned out by the cracking of whips in the hands of immigration officers. Beaten, coerced, and humiliated, they were pushed into a river of uncertainty.

I raised the alarm. Some listened. Others remained silent. Today, I feel powerless.

My passion burns, but I lack the power to right every wrong. I know people and organizations who could act but fear, fatigue, and the risk of being seen as “anti-government” have numbed their will.

How do I stay calm when mothers call asking if i can help find their children who ran the other way? How do I keep hope alive when protectors become perpetrators?

I ask God: why give me this fire, this burden, and then withhold the power to act?

Still, I will not give up. I will write, speak, document and scream if I must. Even if I can’t change everything, I must change something.

To the immigration officers involved: your badges grant you authority, but your actions define your legacy. Every decision you make leaves a mark, choose to be remembered as protectors of humanity.

To the people of Kameme: you have done your part, and done it well. You have shown that even in poverty, humanity is a gift that must be shared.

And to the asylum seekers: I see you. I grieve with you. I fight for you even when I feel I’m losing.