Opinion: My Canadian experience 

I moved to Canada April 12, 2022. I have been living here three months now but I still wake up fearing it is a dream. I was born, raised and lived most of my 30 years in Uganda. Until 2020, I had never thought I would have reason to live the land of my forefathers. Then problems arose because of my political beliefs. 

Increasingly, I realised, I could not allow my six children to be raised in an environment where your political affiliation matters more than your qualifications. An unstable governance system that rewards patronage above serving public good. I had to get out! That’s when I started looking around for my escape chute. 

I knew Canada would be my home when I landed at Pearson airport and unlike in many countries I have been to, I was not received with suspicion because of my skin colour. 

As soon as the Canadian immigration services confirmed that I was on the run in fear for my life, they took it upon themselves to make my family and I feel as safe as possible. I was so used to the harsh interrogation one receives at any border check point into Uganda that I was taken by surprise by the kindness I received. 

One of the officials at the airport actually inquired, if I did not mind, how I had acquired the scars on the right side of my face. I explained that I had been involved in an accident intended to end my life because of my covert support of Robert Kyagulanyi. The official asked if I needed any disability assistance. You do not hear such offers where I originally came from at all! That is not where the concern for my welfare stopped. 

Before we set off for the city from the airport, my host family asked me to confirm whether the likes and dislikes I had indicated in our application papers stood. The family wanted to make sure that they did not transfer us to a facility that might offend any of our religious or cultural sensibilities. I was astonished at that. 

Of course a day in, I realised I would be missing my matooke and groundnuts paste as I settled down to a meal that was foreign to me. My wife had introduced me to bushera as an alternative to water when I was healing from my accident wounds and I missed it keenly as I was offered iced bottled water. My new rehydration liquid in Canada that I would need to keep close by. 

For many months before we left Uganda, I had been seeking treatment for blinding headaches and continual backache from my accident. Many times, I was forced to pay out of pocket when the latest procedures to correct my vision and help me regain my mobility were due but insurance funds and the like were not ready. The Ugandan health service is not for the poor or those low on funds. Saving a life seems to rank really low on the list of priorities, in my personal experience. 

The treatment I have received in Toronto has healed me not just physically but psychologically. The change has been noticed not just by myself but even the person closest to me and who has witnessed my trials and tribulations at the hands of brutal state agents: my wife.