“Lord, I have treasured your word in my heart, that I may not sin against You”  Psalm 119:11

Growing up in a joyful, loving family with the most devoted parents a child could hope for, nothing could have ever warned me—or prepared me—for the horror that would soon unfold.

For those unfamiliar with my story, I was in 7th grade when Rwanda was plunged into one of the most devastating atrocities of the 20th century: the Genocide against the Tutsi. In just over three months, more than a million Tutsis were brutally killed—including my parents, two of my siblings, relatives, friends, neighbors, and fellow citizens.

Me, sometime between 1995 and 1996

Before the nightmare could end, everything felt surreal—almost beyond comprehension. I was completely alone and abandoned. The first person to offer me shelter was my uncle’s wife, whom we encountered in a refugee camp in the heart of the capital during an evacuation.

After the genocide against the Tutsi ended, I had no idea that what awaited me was not refuge, but exploitation. My aunt had effectively found a nanny for her two young children.

Months later, unaware that I had survived, my mother’s youngest sister, Beata, saw me on my way home from school. Upon learning of my living conditions, she quietly took me into her home. Beata worked for the government, and her husband held a position with the United Nations—on the surface, a promising new beginning. But what I hoped would be a place of healing quickly turned into yet another chapter of hardship.

Despite their resources, my basic needs were neglected. I was denied essentials like sanitary pads, and only received clothing and shoes when Beata no longer had use for them—after she had indulged herself in expensive outfits. Behind the walls of their mansion, I endured relentless emotional abuse. I wasn’t treated like family—I was treated like a burden.

As I tried to adapt and remain grateful for a roof over my head, the atmosphere grew increasingly hostile. Beata, perhaps threatened by my presence as I came of age, became controlling and cold. I was no longer allowed to eat with the family or speak freely. Even the few clothes I owned were closely monitored. Eventually, I was confined to my room, kept out of sight, and falsely accused of stealing money, all while being tasked with carrying heavy groceries alone—despite the family owning a car.

Then, one day, Beata told me to leave. I didn’t know what crime I had committed—only that my presence was no longer tolerated. As I stepped into the unknown, I began a long, painful journey toward healing. For years, I struggled to believe that not all married women were cruel. I entered college while navigating deep darkness, often relying on the kindness of strangers for a place to sleep. I came dangerously close to calling the streets my home—or worse, compromising myself just to survive.

Me, August 2012

Despite the unimaginable losses and hardships I endured, I graduated among the top of my class with a Bachelor’s degree in Engineering and secured a full-time job just days before graduation. Three months later, I received a full scholarship to pursue a Master’s degree in Engineering in the United States. In time, I was offered my dream job.

By God’s grace, I was also able to support my three younger siblings—Eric, Alice, and Mireille—through school. All of them, who were under 10 during the genocide against the Tutsi, were on track to complete their university degrees by 2014.

I owe every blessing in my life to God, the Father to the fatherless, who never left my side—even in the darkest moments. He sustained me, lifted me, and gave me the strength to forgive and move forward.

I am deeply thankful for:

• His unconditional love and grace that empowered me to forgive those who hurt me, including those who took my family and those who failed me when I needed them most.
• My siblings, who are my greatest joy and lifelong responsibility. They are my sunshine and purpose.
• A new home in a faraway land, where love and healing replaced fear and loneliness. I am forever grateful to my adoptive parents, whose words—“You will always have a home here”—are etched in my heart.
• A fulfilling career and a company I love working for.
• The Summit Church family, where my faith continues to grow.
• Friends who have walked this journey with me—across continents and cultures—filling my life with encouragement and joy.
• Opportunities to speak and share my testimony, and to be featured in blogs and journals by amazing women like Kimberly Kaye Harms and Felicia Alvarez.
• Pastor J.D. Greear and his family, whose love, support, and hospitality have been a blessing beyond words.
• Andy Rogers of RBC/Discovery House Publishers, who is working to include part of my story in Our Daily Bread.

Looking back, I am in awe of how far I’ve come. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know Who holds it. My heart is open, and my answer to God remains: “Yes!” May He continue to use me to bring hope to the hurting, the homeless, the orphaned, and the forgotten—because I’ve been there too.

Don’t let past pain define you. Overcome evil with good. As I look ahead to the future with hope and expectation, I pray that 2014 and beyond brings you peace, joy, and purpose.