The gash across the face of Emmanuel Mahuro, a 17-year-old Rwandan native, is no longer an open wound. Today, like a jagged boundary line on a map, a scar juts down the plateau of his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and up the slope of his right cheek. It is impossible to look into Emmanuel’s eyes without seeing this deep cut, a mark of division etched across his face—and the face of Rwanda—15 years after the genocide.

Kani Ibrahim Mohamed sits perched on a chair with her black and gold gown covering her right past her toes. She keeps adjusting the headscarf over her henna hair while her 3-year-old, Guled, does his best to sit as close as possible to their old television. There are no pictures on the wall and only one large rug covers the floor. The place is so minimal it looks spartan; but for Kani, this is everything—her jewel, her pride, her America. It’s leagues away from her old life in Somalia and Ethiopia and it’s where she can live, as she says over and over, “a freedom life.”