Anticipatory Worry and Faith: A Refugee’s Journey Through Christmas

By Dr. William A. Twayigize

The Christmas Eve

Whereas to all of us, Christmas seasons bring joy, anticipation, expectations, and a sense of awe and wonder, to me, it is another story because whenever Christmas approaches, I am gripped by anguished anticipation. Now, as Christmas 2024 nears, my mind takes me back, my heart becomes heavy with the haunting memories of Christmas Eve 1996—a night of unrelenting rain, blood, and despair in the suffocating Tingi Tingi jungle, deep within the vast and menacing Ituri forest. While the world celebrated, I was among millions of desperate refugees: pregnant women with swollen feet trudging through endless mud, children clinging to their mothers, orphaned little ones wailing for parents who would never return, the pregnant mothers with swollen feet due to thousands of miles trekked, the elderly too weak to walk, and the wounded bleeding into the rain-soaked earth—all seeking shelter in a place that offered none. The jungle, a labyrinth of ancient trees and oppressive shadows, became a theater of horror; its rustling leaves masked the footsteps of killers, its damp air carried the cries of the slaughtered, and its relentless rain seeped into our blistered feet and broken bodies. Around us, our enemies prowled like wolves, their AK 47 bayonets gleaming faintly in the dim light, their savage hatred echoing in the screams of the dying. The stench of decay, of death, and of despair clung to us as I sat shivering, drenched, and alone, consumed by the weight of profound loss—my family slaughtered, others forcibly returned to Rwanda to meet the same fate, and all of us abandoned to a world indifferent to our suffering. In the midst of this hell, the promise of “Emmanuel—God with us” felt like a cruel jest, a name distant and hollow in a place seemingly forsaken by Heaven. And yet, even in the depths of this abyss, a fragile thread of faith flickered within me, and through trembling lips, I whispered the words of Psalm 23:4, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” It was this fragile faith that became my crutch, holding me up and daring me to believe that even amidst the blood, the rain, and the death, God’s mercy was still there, quietly sustaining me in ways I could not yet see.

Darkness and Despair

That Christmas Eve, we found ourselves running from death itself, hunted relentlessly from the Rwandan refugee camps in Uvira, Nyangezi, Panzi, Kavumu, NRA, Nyamirangwe, Kashusha, Mugunga, Lac Vert, Kibumba, Kahindo, and Katale, until we finally arrived at Tingi Tingi—a place once an aerodrome meant to connect Kisangani to Goma and Bukavu but long abandoned and overtaken by the jungle. This desolate place, steeped in history as a hub for looting rare minerals, became our makeshift camp, a fragile sanctuary for millions of desperate refugees. The dense jungle was both our shield and our prison, offering no comfort or hope. That rainy Christmas Eve, there were no lights, no gifts, no festive meals. Hunger clawed at our insides, and the air was filled with the cries of the sick and dying. Torrential rain, mixed with hail, pounded our fragile bodies throughout the night as we lay exposed to the merciless elements. Mosquitoes feasted on our blood, celebrating their own Christmas in a jungle teeming with swamps and disease. The ground became our bed, and the few who had arrived earlier claimed spots on the soaked tarmac to rest their emaciated bodies. Beneath the vast, indifferent sky, the stars bore silent witness to our silent night of tears, sorrow, and mourning.

I stood alone in the storm, the cold rain drenching me to the bone, as despair wrapped itself around us like the unyielding darkness of that night. The faces around me were etched with pain beyond words: mothers cradling lifeless children, men hollowed by atrocities, pregnant women with swollen feet trudging through the mud, and children too young to understand the horrors they had endured, their eyes asking questions no one could answer. The weight of the night pressed down on me: Would I survive? Would I ever escape this jungle of death? Did God hear our cries, or had He abandoned us? My heart echoed with questions and faint whispers of Matthew 6:25: “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink…”—words that felt like a cruel irony in a place devoid of provision. Could God be here in this desolation? The night stretched endlessly, filled with doubt and despair, as death roamed among us. We were convinced we would not see Christmas morning, but as the rain continued to pour, I clung to the faintest thread of hope that perhaps, even in this darkness, God had not forgotten us.

The Crushing Weight of Uncertainty

Anticipatory worry weighed heavily on me as we huddled together in the dense jungle that Christmas Eve at Tingi Tingi. The once-abandoned aerodrome had become a sprawling, chaotic camp for millions of refugees, and yet it offered no sense of safety. The jungle was alive with terror—distant gunfire echoing like a grim reminder of our pursuers, bullets streaking through the night sky like fiery warnings. Explosions rumbled like thunder, and the ground beneath us trembled with the violence that surrounded us. The cries of children, the muffled sobs of mothers, and the distant screams of the wounded filled the damp air, mingling with the acrid smell of gunpowder. Rain poured mercilessly, soaking our already weakened bodies, and small hailstones battered us as if the heavens themselves were punishing us. For shelter, we had nothing but the jungle’s thick canopy, where mosquitoes swarmed in a relentless feast upon our emaciated bodies. I watched as the ground became a cold, muddy grave for some and an unforgiving bed for others, the lifeless bodies of those who couldn’t endure blending with the soaked earth beneath us.

In the midst of this chaos, despair crept into every heart. The distant flashes of gunfire painted the night sky, their light mocking the absence of Christmas candles or festive warmth. The thunderous explosions drowned out any thoughts of peace, and we were left to wonder if we would see another dawn. My mind swirled with questions that had no answers: Would I live to see the end of this nightmare? Had God abandoned us entirely? As I stared into the rain-soaked darkness, the words of Isaiah 41:10 echoed faintly in my heart: “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Yet, they felt distant and almost cruel in a place where survival seemed impossible. The chaos around us made every breath a battle and every moment an act of defiance. The air, thick with fear and the lingering stench of death, felt like a suffocating shroud. Yet, even in that desolation, a fragile thread of hope held me. As explosions mingled with the cries of despair, I whispered the words of Lamentations 3:22-23: “Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.” It was a glimmer of light in the darkest of nights, a reminder that perhaps—even there—God had not forgotten us.

Reflections on Hope and Resilience

As Christmas 2024 and the New Year 2025 approach, my heart inevitably returns to that haunting Christmas Eve in the jungle of Tingi Tingi. I was not spared because of strength, wisdom, or merit above the countless childhood friends, schoolmates, and loved ones who perished in that desolate Congolese wilderness. It was only by God’s grace that I am here today, able to recount the story. That night, the jungle was deprived of the “Jingle Bells” and was drenched in relentless rain and suffused with despair. The cries of the sick and dying filled the air, intermingled with the ominous echoes of gunfire and explosions as death prowled among us. Our makeshift beds on the cold, soaked ground, the biting fear of imminent danger, and the shadows of death that loomed over us remain etched into my memory. Life since that night has been unpredictable, and the anticipatory fears from those days never fully fade. Yet one truth continues to shine brightly: “For My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:8-9).

In those harrowing moments, I couldn’t fathom why my life had been spared amid the chaos and relentless death surrounding me, nor could I grasp what purpose God had for my survival. Yet, as time unfolded, I came to realize that life’s truest meaning lies in the lives we touch and the burdens we help carry. To be a “tree of blessings”—bringing light to places of despair—is not merely an act of kindness but a sacred calling, rooted in God’s unfailing love. This conviction shapes the heart of ANEHOPE Ministry, where we strive to “educate future compassionate servant leaders for Christ” by easing pain, opening doors to education, and transforming lives through His love. In that jungle, I did not witness hundreds or thousands but millions of souls vanish, and yet, by grace alone, my life was spared. Through it all, one profound truth revealed itself: the true nourishment of the soul is found in kindness, in touching someone’s life for Christ, and in leaving behind a legacy of hope and gratitude. Beyond wealth or status, it is the memories of kindness and the lives uplifted that endure. That same God who sustained me through the terror of that Christmas Eve continues to inspire us today. His presence shone through the chaos in the smallest mercies: the grace to see another day, whispered prayers, and the resilience to keep going. The words of Psalm 23:4 have been my anchor: “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” This Christmas, whether you are surrounded by joy or weighed down by uncertainty, remember Emmanuel—God with us. His love transcends every shadow, and His peace is freely given to all who seek Him. Let us carry this truth forward, becoming vessels of His blessings, and sharing the hope and eternal love that only He can provide, because through it all, only hope sustained me.

A haunting image of Rwandan refugees arriving at the desolate Tingi Tingi camp—a place of sorrow and survival where millions of Rwandan women, children, pregnant mothers, the sick, and the elderly converged after enduring two and a half harrowing months in the dense jungles of Congo. They had been relentlessly hunted and slaughtered by Rwandan Tutsi soldiers, and for many, Tingi Tingi became both a sanctuary and a graveyard. Countless lives were lost within its confines, with thousands of children perishing in this heart-wrenching chapter of human suffering. This photo captures not just their arrival but the unspeakable pain and resilience etched into every face, a testament to their fight for survival against all odds. (Image: Google)