THE FOREIGN SERVICE JOURNAL | JUNE 2025 29 Returning to my birthplace, the country that shaped so much of my cultural and social identity, felt like fate. It was a dream come true, tinged with the inevitable fear of the unknown, but grounded in an overwhelming sense of pride. I had made it. I had stepped into a new chapter, one filled with purpose, responsibility, and the opportunity to have a real impact. That first year at post was one of the best years of my life. Sure, I had my fair share of complaints about the traffic in Kinshasa. But even that, in hindsight, is something I miss. What I wouldn’t give now to be stuck on that shuttle at the end of a long day, sitting in gridlocked streets with my friends and colleagues, trading stories and laughter. What I wouldn’t give to walk into the office and see the warm smiles of my Congolese colleagues, people who exemplify the best of humanity, working tirelessly to tackle some of the country’s most pressing health challenges. But in the blink of an eye, it was all ripped away. In January, I was evacuated under harrowing circumstances due to civil unrest. I was forced to leave behind the life I was building, the work that gave me purpose, and the people who had become my second family. The trauma of that moment still lingers, not just because of the chaos and fear, but because it stirred something even deeper: memories of another evacuation, one that uprooted me from what was then Zaire in 1991. I was just a child then, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. But now, as an adult, experiencing it again in eerily similar ways, the wounds have reopened in ways I never anticipated. Returning to the United States under this veil of suspicion, under the shadow of my own government questioning my intentions, has shaken me to my core. This is not just a personal struggle; it is part of a broader, insidious pattern of psychological warfare being waged against those of us who have dedicated our lives to public service. It is an attack not just on me but on my colleagues, on marginalized communities, on anyone who dares to challenge the status quo and push for a better world. The consequences of this assault will be lasting, far beyond my own experience. And yet, despite my rage, my hurt, and my profound sense of disillusionment—I remain hopeful. Some may call it naivete. Others may attribute it to my Catholic upbringing, the ingrained belief in resilience, in faith, in the notion that light can still break through the darkest of nights. But I know it is more than that. I have seen resilience in action, lived it, breathed it. I saw it in my parents, in the way they endured unimaginable hardships yet never wavered in their resolve. I see it in the communities I have chosen and the ones that have chosen me—people who stand firm in their convictions, who fight for justice, who embody the very best that humanity has to offer. These are the people who give me strength, who remind me that hope is not just a sentiment but an act of defiance, a conscious choice in the face of despair. I do not know what will happen next. The path ahead is uncertain, filled with more questions than answers. But I do know this: I will not go down without a fight. I refuse to let this moment define me, to let it strip me of my purpose, my voice, or my determination. I will not be silenced, and I will not turn away from the work that matters. Because that work—the fight for justice, for dignity, for humanity—is bigger than me. It always has been. From the ashes of what remains, we will rise again. Stronger. Wiser. More aware of all that is at stake. We have a moral obligation—not just as public servants, but as human beings—to stand up for what is right, to protect those who cannot protect themselves, to build a world that is just and equitable. And I refuse to do anything less than that. Hope is not just an emotion. It is a force. It is a choice. And today, as I stand on uncertain ground, I choose it once again. Erin Aseli Fleming Foreign Service Officer n We have a moral obligation— not just as public servants, but as human beings—to stand up for what is right, to protect those who cannot protect themselves, to build a world that is just and equitable.
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