My Immigration Story

My immigration story isn’t one of border crossings or personal asylum claims—it’s the legacy of love, sacrifice, and loss that shaped my purpose.

My father was an immigrant from the Democratic Republic of Congo—what was then known as Zaïre. He was a trained musician and professor, full of dreams and talent. He met my American mother in Paris, where they fell in love and eventually moved to the United States to start a new life. But as life unfolded, their relationship grew apart. And with it, my father’s dreams unraveled.

He never got his green card.

Despite his education and gifts, he lived undocumented for years, trapped in a system that didn’t recognize his worth. Eventually, he returned to the Congo—not with wealth or opportunity to uplift his family, but with a few newspaper clippings, photos, and stories of what might have been. As the eldest son, he had been expected to provide, but the broken immigration process had silenced his potential.

For the past 30 years, the DRC has endured war, displacement, and destruction. I meet Congolese people here in the U.S. who fled that chaos, desperately seeking asylum. Many want to return home, but they can’t. And in this foreign land, they are often left to navigate their trauma and immigration claims without even someone to speak their language.

I’ve had the honor of interpreting for many of them, sitting beside them as they recount the worst moments of their lives to strangers. And each time, I’ve felt the weight of what it means to merely transmit a story when I know how deeply it deserves to be defended.

That’s why I decided to do more. Because for every Congolese client I interpret for, there are thousands more living in the shadows—undocumented, with nothing but a file of expired visas, forms, and fading photos.

My work is now my calling: to help my community not just survive, but to navigate, heal, and thrive. To ensure their stories are not lost, and that their futures are not limited by the same invisible barriers that once silenced my father.

Ndona Nkembi Muboyayi