One year ago, my family and I were forced to leave Malawi, not because of wrongdoing, but because I dared to speak out for the rights of refugees, those whom society often prefers to forget. After calling Malawi home for 21 years, walking away felt like tearing a piece of my soul. It was a land I loved deeply, one that had welcomed me as a refugee youth and became the place where I raised my family and built my life’s mission.
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But in recent years, the space for truth and justice began to shrink. Threats against me escalated. The then Minister of Homeland Security, Ken Zikhale Ngoma, used his power to weave lies and push a political agenda that harmed the very people I sought to protect—unarmed, vulnerable refugees and asylum seekers.
Looking back, I sometimes wrestle with guilt. My calling, what I believe is God’s purpose for my life, put my family in a constant state of fear. My children, especially my eldest, would call whenever I was late, just to make sure I was okey. At night, we often lay awake, bracing for what might happen next. Our lives became a waiting game of anxiety.
And still, I stayed the course. I believed that leaving Malawi would feel like an army general abandoning his troops on the battlefield. But with time, I’ve come to understand something deeper: the battle was never mine alone. It has always been God’s. I’m just a small, flawed man playing my part in His greater plan.
In those dark days, the threats were real and constant. Ethiopian traffickers, with their armed allies, sought to silence me for exposing their cruel trade. Those believed to have been sent by the Rwandan government to target Rwandan refugees who oppose the ruling party plotted to take my life. Meanwhile, Malawi’s refugee department worked tirelessly to damage my reputation, even succeeding in having me removed from the board of Jesuit Refugee Services (JRS), where I had volunteered since 2019.
I often wonder what makes compassion so dangerous? I carry no crown, no riches, no influence, just the scars and strength of someone raised in refugee camps. I was once the one in need, and kindness found me. That memory is what drives me to give back. I don’t seek praise, only to lift others as I was lifted. Yet for this, I am hunted. Why is empathy treated as a threat? Why is giving back viewed as a crime so grave it must be crushed?
For a moment, it felt like they had won. But they didn’t. Even now, from a distance, I continue that work. I am still advocating for refugee rights, leading Inua Advocacy, contributing to legal reform efforts, and engaging with partners who care about justice. Though I no longer walk the streets of Dzaleka refugee camp or Lilongwe, my voice may now echo from afar, but it is still present, still active, still committed. I believe God is using me, even in exile, to push forward His work of justice and mercy.
I also believe deep in my spirit that a day is coming when refugees in Malawi will be protected under a new law. A law that recognizes them not as burdens, but as human beings created in God’s image, worthy of rights and dignity. I will keep fighting for that future, no matter where I am.
I thank God for His protection and mercy. There were moments when I felt completely overwhelmed, but His grace has carried us through and still does. I’m deeply thankful for the friends whose support, prayers, and generosity continue to strengthen us.
My greatest joy today is seeing my children heal. Though they carry the scars of what we endured, they are recovering well and thriving in school. Their strength is a daily reminder that hope is not lost.
And while refugees in Malawi still face great hardship especially since May 17, 2023, I’m encouraged to know that many Malawian citizens still choose compassion over fear. They continue to stand up for humanity, regardless of status.
One year later, I reflect on this journey with a heart full of both sorrow and gratitude. The road has been long, but we walk it with God. With Him leading the way, we will not lose hope.
To God be the glory!
