When I first arrived in Victoria, British Columbia, it felt like I had entered a completely different world. Sure, it’s a capital city, but it doesn’t have that big, busy capital-city vibe. It’s quiet and cozy, kind of tucked away by the Salish Sea, and everywhere you look, there’s something beautiful. Old buildings line the waterfront, gardens spill colour into every corner, and forests seem to stretch in every direction around the city.
What surprised me most, however, was not the scenery or the weather. It was the silence. Back in Dzaleka refugee camp, there was never really any silence. Houses squeezed together, walls barely thick enough to muffle a conversation. Kids played outside all day long. Neighbours shouted across their yards. There was always music, stories floating from one house to another, and the sound of people living close together. So, when I got to Victoria, I kept listening, hoping for those familiar, lively echoes. Instead, I heard wind moving through the trees, the cry of far-off seagulls, and sometimes just nothing at all. The quiet felt odd. I remember standing outside my building, wondering where everybody was. The streets seemed almost deserted compared to what I was used to. People were polite, sure, but they mostly kept to themselves. At first, I thought the quiet meant loneliness. But over time, I figured out it was just a different kind of living.
My story didn’t begin here. It started in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where conflict forced my family to leave everything behind. We ended up in Dzaleka refugee camp, in Malawi, where I spent most of my childhood. Nothing about life there was easy. Resources were thin, opportunities scarce, and uncertainty hung over us most days. But even when things felt impossible, my parents insisted that learning mattered; they believed education could open doors for my future.
As a teenager, I got serious about school. Lots of people doubted that education would change anything for them, but I held firmly to the belief that education could change my future. That hope pushed me to apply for a sponsorship that eventually brought me to Canada, and let me study at the University of Victoria.
I’ll never forget the day I found out I’d been chosen. I felt so much excitement, gratitude, and disbelief. Canada always seemed so far away. Suddenly, it was real. Packing for the flight, I brought just a few belongings, but I was really carrying my family’s hopes. Leaving was thrilling and heavy at the same time. My parents, siblings, and friends all stayed behind. I didn’t know when I’d see them again.
My first Canadian airport was Toronto, after flying through Addis Ababa. Standing beside this massive airplane, part of me couldn’t believe something so big could even fly. After we landed, I navigated immigration officials who checked my documents as planes arrived and departed in all directions. The scene reminded me of a bus station, except that instead of buses, the place was filled with airplanes. I watched, fascinated, as the world came and went.
It was a long journey, but when I boarded the last flight to Victoria, I felt hopeful about the future. Peering out over Vancouver Island, I saw endless forests, islands, and water. Nervous and excited at the same time, I knew life was about to change. Nothing prepared me for Vancouver Island. The scenery was nothing like Dzaleka. Everywhere I looked, I could see the water. Huge evergreens, rolling hills, and every shade of green you could imagine, more vibrant and lusher than I’d ever seen before.
Until coming to Canada, I’d never lived anywhere near an ocean. The first time I stood on the shore, the salt spray stung my face, and the wind whipped around me. I pulled my jacket tighter and listened to the waves crashing, ferries humming across the water. I kept staring out at the horizon, trying to see where the ocean ended. The Salish Sea just stretched on forever. The sun shifted, the water changed from blue to silver, and seagulls cried overhead. I stood there for a long time, taking it all in.
Discovering the ferry system blew me away. My first trip to Salt Spring Island still stands out. I watched a line of cars drive aboard, families inside, and cyclists and walkers boarding somewhere else. I turned to my friend Sabriana and asked, “Are all those cars really going on the boat?” She laughed and said, “Just wait. You’ll see.” She was right; there’d be plenty more. Onboard, people left their cars and gathered on the deck. Children raced from window to window. Families bought snacks, tourists snapped photos. I found a spot by the railing and spent most of the trip looking out at the water. Surrounded by islands and endless water, I started to get why people loved living here.
I spent afternoons at Victoria’s Inner Harbour too. Always busy with boats coming and going, tourists everywhere, locals soaking up the view. One day, I sat on a bench with an ice cream, watching a seaplane land on the water for the first time. Kids pointed excitedly, tourists stopped to take pictures, and even now, I’m fascinated by ferries, fishing boats, sailboats, and seaplanes all sharing the same space.
Seeing seals and sea lions felt unreal. Even from a distance, watching them in the wild was incredible. Growing up in Dzaleka, I never imagined I would one day see animals like that living freely along the coast. The weather here caught me off guard, too. In Malawi, I knew heat and sunshine. Victoria offered misty mornings, fog rolling in, long, gentle rains. Sometimes the fog was so thick the sea and sky melted into each other. It felt mysterious at first, a little like stepping into a movie scene. But slowly, it became something I loved.
Whenever stress built up, I’d walk to the shore. Watching the waves come in calmed me down, reminded me how big life really is and how small my worries can feel. During my first year at UVic, I lived in cluster housing with three other women. One was Canadian, one was from China, and one was from South Sudan. We came from different parts of the world, but we shared one kitchen and slowly got to know one another. The Chinese student was in her fourth year of computer science. One thing that always caught my attention was that she weighed every meal before eating. I finally asked her why, and she smiled and explained that it was a habit she had developed to stay healthy and not gain weight. I laughed because I had never seen anyone weigh rice before putting it on a plate. Back home, if food was available, we simply thanked God and ate. Moments like that reminded me how much I was learning outside the classroom as well.
University life was much tougher than I expected. I thought I was good at physics before coming to Canada, but PHYS 111 quickly humbled me. The way physics was taught here was completely different from what I had learned before. During the first few weeks, I often left lectures feeling confused and wondering if I really belonged in engineering. Being far from my family made those moments even harder because I couldn’t sit with them and talk through my worries. Instead, I started asking questions, visiting professors during office hours, and spending long evenings in the library. Working hard has always been part of who I am, and little by little, things began to make sense.
One place in Victoria always reminds me of home. Whenever the bus passed along Shelbourne Street near Hillside Mall, I couldn’t help thinking about the road to the hospital in Dzaleka, which we call chipatala. Tall trees line both sides of that road, just like they do on Shelbourne Street. Every time I looked out the bus window, I was taken back to those walks in Dzaleka. The two places are thousands of kilometres apart, yet for a few moments, they felt connected. It reminded me that no matter how far I had travelled, pieces of home were still with me. But each challenge taught me something. I learned to ask for help, even when it felt uncomfortable. I started visiting professors during office hours, even though I was nervous at first. Little by little, I realized that struggling with something new didn’t mean I wasn’t capable. It simply meant I was learning.
UVic became more than a school. It was a place to discover interests, meet people from all kinds of backgrounds and open up to the world. The library became a favourite spot; after growing up with limited resources, being surrounded by books, research, and technology felt extraordinary. There’s so much in Canada that people might take for granted: public libraries, reliable buses, safe walking paths, clean spaces, but those details still impress me. The level of trust in daily life surprises me, too.
Making friends also took time. In Victoria, many students already had friends from high school, so I often felt like I was starting over. People were kind and welcoming, but building real friendships required patience. I learned to introduce myself, join conversations, and step outside my comfort zone. Slowly, Victoria began to feel less lonely. Food became another adventure. Most of my classmates loved sushi and encouraged me to try it. When I finally did, I took one bite and immediately knew it wasn’t for me. On the other hand, I quickly discovered Tim Hortons hot chocolate. The first time I bought one on a cold, rainy afternoon, I took one sip and thought, “Okay, I finally understand why everyone talks about Tim Hortons.” It was warm, sweet, comforting, and surprisingly inexpensive. Since then, whenever Victoria feels especially cold or rainy, a hot chocolate from Tim Hortons always makes the day a little better. I also came to enjoy the fried chicken meal at Part and Parcel.
Trying new foods became another way of learning about Canada while still appreciating the food I grew up with. Sometimes, after a long day of classes and studying, I would walk into Tim Hortons, soaking wet from the rain, wrap my hands around a cup of hot chocolate, and think, “Today was hard, but I made it through.” Another Canadian habit that surprised me was having to book appointments for almost everything. Whether it was seeing a doctor or taking care of other services, I had to plan instead of simply showing up. At first, I found it frustrating because back home, if you needed to see someone, you usually just went. Here, almost everything needed an appointment. I know no place is perfect. Canada’s not perfect, and neither is Victoria.
Leaving family behind is still the hardest part. Every milestone feels a bit empty without the ones I love next to me. Happiness sometimes feels bittersweet because my family isn’t here to celebrate. Songs, food, and familiar scents can catch me off guard, reminding me of home and filling me with longing. But distance makes me appreciate my family more. Their support continues to motivate me every day.
One afternoon, after class, I walked with friends near the harbour. We bought coffee and talked about school, family, and dreams for the future. Looking out over the water, I realized how much I’d changed. Victoria wasn’t scary or unfamiliar anymore. Looking out over the water, I realized how much I’d changed. For the first time, Victoria truly felt like home. I belonged here not just as a student, but as a person.
For a long time, home meant Congo. Later, it was Dzaleka. Today, Victoria has become another place I call home. When I sit beside the ocean, watching ferries move across the water, I sometimes think of the girl who once studied in Dzaleka, dreaming about education, opportunity, and hope. She never imagined ending up here, beside the Salish Sea, studying and building a new life. You can measure the distance from Congo to Dzaleka and then to Victoria in thousands of kilometres, but honestly, the real journey is about hope, learning, resilience, and growth. Congo gave me my roots. Dzaleka taught me perseverance. Victoria opened new doors and showed me a future I never thought was possible. My story’s still unfolding. Every time I watch a ferry head out toward the horizon, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come. Home isn’t just one place anymore; it lives in Congo, Dzaleka, and here on Vancouver Island. Carrying all three inside me isn’t a burden; it’s my greatest strength.
