I was three months old when the Lubavitcher Rebbe sent my parents on shlichut to Kinshasa in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (called Zaire then, in 1991). Our Beit Chabad housed a mikveh in the basement; the shul, called Beit Yaakov, along with my father’s office and my mother’s Hebrew classroom, on the main floor; and on the top floor, our residence, which was open to all for meals on Shabbos or any day of the week.