My Escape from Baghdad by Malak

I am from Baghdad in Iraq. My family and I left my country when I was 3 years old because of the war in 2003. I have a brief memory of my childhood there. The day we decided to escape was probably the hardest day ever for my parents, but they knew it was the best option in order for my sister and me to have an opportunity to live a satisfying life. The night we left was the most confusing time of my life. The only thing I recall from that day was the gates from our house closing and my grandma waving goodbye.

From Iraq we decided to go to Egypt. We ended up in Egypt and lived there for 4 years. I started school in Egypt, but I disliked it because I never had the esteem that the other kids had. I was persecuted in school for being a Christian. Most people in Egypt are Muslim. During the last year of living in Egypt, we decided it was not the place to continue our life, and we made a huge decision to move to the United States.

While we were taking a flight from Egypt to the United States, we did not know which state we were going to go to because the government chose for us. We made a couple of stops on our journey. Our first stop was in Germany for one day. Next, we stopped in Florida for two days. Finally, we took the last flight. We were in the airplane for what seemed like forever, but finally we ended up in Chicago, Illinois. My childhood was very unique. Leaving was agonizing in some ways because I still have family in Iraq. I hope one day soon I will be able to go back to the place where my life started.

Ghana and the Lottery Visa by Bismark

My mother’s name is Augustina Ampong.  She was born in Monso, Ghana, in West Africa.  Ampong is a traditional African name and has no special meaning. Her parents, An Yeboaa and Kojo Nsia also came from a village in Ghana.  She lived with her parents along with several of her siblings.  She remembers living in the home like it was a community. They shared cooking among other chores. One particular memory she recalls is that the family always had dinner together.  She came to Chicago after entering a lottery for a visa.  She met my father at a school in Monso, Ghana where they both worked. They got married in Monso.

My father’s name is Daniel Gyebi.  Gyebi is a typical Ashanti name.  He too was born in a village in Ghana. It was named Achiau. He remembers his primary daily chore was to walk to a nearby stream every morning before school to collect the day’s water for the family.  He too won a lottery to come to Chicago.  He was a teacher where my mother worked as a secretary. 

People have asked about the lottery visa.  Every year the USA has a Green Card lottery for foreigners who want to live there.  About 50,000 people every year are granted a visa.  Not all countries are eligible and the eligibility status changes every year. For 2015, I looked up the countries on the government website who can’t apply because more than 50,000 people came from there in the past 5 years. Bangladesh, Brazil, Canada, China (mainland born), Colombia, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, El Salvador, Haiti, India, Jamaica, Mexico, Nigeria, Pakistan, Peru, Philippines, South Korea,  United Kingdom (except Northern Ireland) and its dependent territories, and Vietnam. If you read my list, you can see that Ghana is not on it and so people from Ghana are eligible.

Alexandria My Father is a Hero

My dad is a hero. He was born in Mushin, Lagos State, Nigeria. In 1993, the government was ruled by the military until a general named Babangida offered the people free elections. Three months later, the government annulled the election and my father joined a group to work for democracy called NADECO, the National Democratic Coalition.

On the thirteenth day of resistance to the military government, my father and other members assembled peacefully to plan a nationwide strike and a demonstration. My father was arrested and  hit with batons on his face and head. He was kicked, pushed into a police van and imprisoned with ten other men in a cell meant for two. Every few hours, one or two men would be taken from the cell into an interrogation room where they were tortured. My father was beaten with electrical wire, stripped to his underwear and doused with cold water. The police wanted him to reveal the whereabouts of the key members of NADECO, and when my father remained silent, they threatened to charge him with plotting to overthrow the government. This charge meant death by firing squad.

After being held for weeks in the darkness of his prison cell, my father was saved by his uncle. He became a refugee, traveling through Africa until he found asylum in Canada. He arrived in the United States in 1995, where he is free to speak about the government and assemble peacefully in a group to discuss politics without fear or torture and death.

Naol Coming from Ethiopia

I was born in Ethiopia. I lived with my dad, mom, brother grandpa, grandma and aunt. In 2004, when I was three years old my dad died. I don’t remember much except how my mom was crying.
Two of my aunts already lived in the U.S.A. and after my dad died, they sent money to my mom to bring us here. I came to America last year and I did not speak English. Now I speak a lot.

When we arrived in Chicago, we stayed with my aunts but now we live alone. My mom works at O’Hare. America is fun, but I would like to visit Ethiopia again someday.

My tutor at school helped me write this. She comes to help me every week. Twice a week. Thank you Ms. Digan.

Erica from Ghana

I was born in Africa, in a small village in Ghana called Hwidiem. Until I was eight, my mother and I stayed in the house of my grandmother. We earned money by farming. Every day during the dry months I had to walk up a hill to the land where our crops were planted. On my head I carried water. On my back was a baby, my cousin. We grew plantain, corn, sugar cane, bananas and cocoa, cassava, and yam. At the top of the hill, I would set down the bucket and pour the water into a small container. I had to be very careful, as it was not free and my grandmother would be angry if I spilled. We did not own a well, and paid five cedis each time we drew water.

Other days in Hwidiem I would take a cutlass and clear grass, or pull weeds and help with the harvest. There was always something that needed to be done, which would prevent me from attending the school. There was always work, work, work. Cooking, cleaning, minding the baby and sometimes, good times, I went to school.

Mrs. Brock A Family Story

My Irish great-grandmother, Bertha, and my Croatian great grandfather, Frano, married in 1890, and had six children. Three of their babies died, twin boys who lived only 7 months, and a little girl who died at 2. Bertha was heartsick when she lost her babies, and then when she was only 29 she was blinded in a horrific attack on the streets of Chicago. She became severely depressed and spent a long time in the Cook Country Insane Asylum, a state hospital for the poor. Eventually she recovered from her depression, but that was not for many years.

This was 1902. Daycare did not exist, so Frano took his three children to an orphanage. My grandfather was only 5, and this is what he said about that day: “We lined up and kissed our papa, who walked out the door and left us with the nuns. He promised to visit every Sunday. I clung to the hands of my brother and sister, squeezing hard, trying not to cry. I could not believe this was happening. It was the saddest day of my life.”

My grandfather, named after English poet John Milton, grew up in the orphanage. It was called Angel Guardian. It is still there today –Misericordia- (at Devon and Ridge in Chicago). Angel Guardian was run by an order of nuns called the Poor Handmaids of Jesus Christ.

John Milton graduated from grade school and high school, and for a while studied to become a priest, but changed his mind when he met my grandma. Instead, he graduated from DePaul University, became a teacher and had two daughters, one of whom was my mother.

And what happened to Bertha and Frano? Bertha was taught Braille at the state institution and put to work making brooms. She had a bible printed in Braille which she read every day. When her daughter Frances grew up and married, she took Bertha out of the asylum. She was 81 when she died of a stroke. Frano did many jobs. He developed kidney disease and died when he was 54 in the year 1922.