Mother of a Refugee: Dino's Story

“Refugees didn’t merely flee a place; they embarked on a journey to escape a thousand haunting memories, seeking solace in the embrace of time and distance before awakening to a brighter day.”

These words by Nadia Hashimi echo in my heart whenever I think about Dino, a young Gambellan refugee who, despite the physical miles between us, became my son.

It all began with a simple message on February 11, 2018. “Hello Madam,” it read. I didn’t respond at first. It was unexpected, and I wasn’t sure what to do with it. A few days later, the same message came again. This time, I answered with a simple “Hello.”

That’s how it started.

For years now, Dino and I have spoken nearly every day on Messenger, on WhatsApp. Dino had been separated from his homeland of Ethiopia since he was seven years old. He was living alone in the Nakivale refugee camp in Uganda, without family, without certainty, and without a place to truly call home.

His journey as a refugee began in tragedy. On December 13, 2003, Ethiopian national forces and armed militia carried out a brutal massacre of the Anuak people in Gambella. Dino was among the children displaced by that violence. Over 400 were killed that day. His life, like so many others, was upended in a single moment.

My first connection to the Gambellan refugee camp came in December 2017 while volunteering with The Christmas Tree Project. My friend David Fein told me about a request from the camp. They wanted to hold a memorial meal for the lives lost in the massacre. They hoped to feed 600 people.

I said yes.

We placed a basket in the warehouse and invited people to give. I shared the story room by room. Checks and bills filled the basket. One Light Global helped us get the funds to the camp, and in return, we received photos, thank-you notes, and images of smiling children who had been fed in remembrance.

From there, the relationship grew.

We sent soap and school supplies. When storms damaged the buildings, we helped fund repairs. Then came a request for soccer uniforms. I’ve always believed in the power of play, especially in places where joy has to fight hard for space. So we sent soccer balls, shoes, and gear.

That’s how I met Dino.

He was one of the players. He reached out with that now-familiar message: “Hello Madam.” It opened the door to a friendship that became something sacred. We talked about his days in the camp, his dreams, his longing for his mother, his hope for education, and his wish for a better life.

Whenever the camp had a need, we worked together. I sent funds, and Dino coordinated with elders to make the purchases. They took photos and sent receipts, always careful and transparent. And slowly, something shifted. I started to feel a deep connection to Dino.

On June 27, 2020, I told him, “From now on, I’m going to be your American Auntie, okay?”

His reply came quickly. “Yes, of course. I can even call you mom, not auntie—if you don’t mind. That’s what I really wanted.”

I paused. “Mom” carries a lifetime weight. I’ve raised four children. I know what that word means. And Dino still had a mother in Ethiopia. That mattered too.

“If your mom agrees, I will be your American mom,” I told him. “And you’ll have two.”

He spoke with her and returned with a message I’ll never forget. “I told her I got a big family full of kindness. I explained how you help me, how you treat me. She took a breath and said, ‘Wow.’ She shed tears of joy.”

Since that day, I’ve been Dino’s American Mom. Mark has been Dad. Dino gained a new family; brothers, a grandma, aunts and uncles, cousins too, all of whom he connects with online. My own children were hesitant at first. It’s a strange thing to have someone you’ve never met calling your mom ‘Mom.’ But over time, Dino became family to them too.

The truth is, I knew from our first conversation that he was mine. Not in the legal sense. In the soul sense. Some part of me recognized that I could, and must, love this young man.

I’ve always believed that if every one of us helped just one person, we could change the world. Dino became my one.

In the summer of 2020, we began to talk about possibilities beyond the camp. We knew the United States wasn’t a viable option. Immigration laws would make that nearly impossible. But I had an idea.

I reached out to my friend Andrew in South Africa. He runs a mission that feeds thousands of children every day and trains young people in service and leadership. I asked him if Dino could come help. Andrew said yes. He offered to teach Dino to drive, enroll him in classes, and give him meaningful work.

It wasn’t easy. The process took over eighteen months. Dino had to obtain a passport in South Sudan, update his refugee papers in Uganda, and secure a South African visa. Meanwhile, COVID slowed everything. Mark and I got sick. I had lung surgery. But Dino never wavered. He checked in daily. He asked how I was healing. He told me not to worry.

On Christmas Eve of 2021, we got the message we had been praying for. Dino’s visa was approved. By December 28, he was on a plane -- two small suitcases in hand, a wide-open future in front of him.

He arrived safely in South Africa and joined the Overcomers team, working with 80 other young people in the EDCC project. Together, they fed children, delivered supplies, and became living proof that service is a sacred act.

I told my family I felt like Wonder Woman. My youngest son laughed. “We all know you're Wonder Woman, Ma.”

It meant everything to hear that.

But this story isn’t a straight line. After three months in South Africa, Dino’s visa expired. He applied for a new one and waited eight months, only to be denied without explanation.

He’s now back in Uganda, where Mark and I help pay for his modest apartment and college tuition. He’s studying Information Technology and dreaming new dreams. We still hope he’ll live in the U.S. one day. And we continue to work toward that, even when the path feels uncertain.

In January 2025, Mark and I traveled to Uganda and met Dino for the first time. There are no words for what that meeting meant. He is every bit our son. And we love him with our whole hearts. We even had the chance to exchange messages with his mom on the phone. Funny how two hearts can connect beyond a common language.

Immigration laws still keep us apart, but love refuses to be limited by borders. We’re looking for the right door to open…a scholarship, a program, a sponsor, an answer. And we won’t stop.

If you’re reading this and have experience with international student visas or refugee support, I’d love to hear from you. Reach out to me at [email protected]. Your guidance might make all the difference.