A Client Story
Life as an Immigrant with a Disability:
When Survival Depends on Strangers
By M.B.
A man who fled persecution in Uganda due to his disability found many compassionate individuals who helped him rebuild his life in the U.S.
Life as a migrant with a disability is one of the most difficult journeys anyone can endure—especially for asylum seekers. Beyond displacement, there is invisibility. Beyond trauma, there is isolation. And beyond hope, there is often rejection.
In the United States, many immigrants find safety within communities shaped by shared nationality or religion. As a Ugandan Muslim, I believed my first sense of belonging would be in Waltham, Massachusetts—popularly known as the “Watch City,” home to one of the largest Ugandan and Muslim populations in the area. I thought arriving there meant my American dream was finally beginning. I was only half right.
I was welcomed at Karibu Restaurant, where I received a free, full-course meal almost every day for nearly two years. That generosity sustained my body when I had nothing else. But when it came time to seek employment, housing, and dignity, I encountered a painful truth: disability often erases compassion—even within one’s own community.
Many Ugandans I encountered carried the same discrimination and ignorance I had hoped to escape, transported from Butambala and Masaka into a new country. I was told bluntly that I could never work at places like Home Depot or any mainstream employer. Some advised me to return to Uganda. Then one person chose to see ability instead of limitation.
Mukasa, a friend whose kindness changed my life, believed in my education and computer skills. He encouraged me, counseled me, and pushed me to apply for work. Within days, I was hired. That moment restored my dignity and reminded me that opportunity—not pity—creates independence.
Yet employment did not solve everything. Housing became my next battle. Finding accessible accommodation was nearly impossible. Many people avoided association with a person with a disability. I moved between expensive hotels and eventually spent a month in a shelter in downtown Boston.
For people like me, opportunity arrived not through policy alone, but through human kindness. And that kindness saved my life.
When I was close to giving up, an angel appeared. Tammy D—someone I met on the streets of Waltham—paid for my hotel suite for seven months, contributing about $200 every month. She was a stranger who expected nothing in return. To this day, her kindness feels unreal. That is why I call her Angel Tammy.
My survival was also made possible by my lawyer, who was not only my legal representative but also my supporter and friend. I am deeply grateful to Reverend Ruth B. and her team, and to guardians and allies including Eric S, Mike G, and others—many of them pensioners who repeatedly reached into their own pockets to help me stand.
Another turning point in my life began at WATCH CDC, an organization neighboring Karibu Restaurant. One afternoon, as I sat quietly scrolling through my phone, a man came in to order samosas. He noticed me in my wheelchair and simply said hello. He asked if I needed anything to eat. I declined, not wanting to appear ungrateful since Karibu already fed me daily.
But he didn’t walk away. He asked about my story. I opened up. He invited me to the WATCH offices, where I later met professionals from the Right to Immigration Institute. One of them became my immigration attorney and helped me file my asylum case. WATCH also paid for my first hotel stay and connected me to critical resources.
Through WATCH, I met Maggie, who welcomed me into her home for several months. There, I experienced American culture firsthand—from food to daily life, including living with dogs. It was in Maggie’s home that I met Zeena, her dog. Zeena became more than a pet. She checked on me constantly. When I looked at something I needed—a shoe across the room—she would fetch it and bring it to me. In her quiet loyalty, I regained a sense of independence I thought I had lost forever.
My story is not unique—but it is rarely told. It is the story of immigrants with disabilities who survive not because systems work, but because individuals choose compassion. It is a reminder that dignity is not granted by immigration status, disability, or nationality—but by how we treat one another.
America is often described as a nation of opportunity. For people like me, opportunity arrived not through policy alone, but through human kindness. And that kindness saved my life.