The story I’m telling here is not mine. It is the story of—well, you will see. I am sharing it here just as it was told to me, omitting only the name. I was asked to do that because this woman—a faculty member at a prominent university; I will identify her no more narrowly than that—fears for her safety. That’s right. In 2016, in America, a Jewish woman telling a true story of her background fears for her safety. That is what Trump and his basket of deplorables (a term I will NOT apologize for) have brought us to.
Here is the story. This is why we will vote Tuesday.
I am the daughter of a refugee. I am the granddaughter of a refugee. My mother was born into a country ravaged by war. Her given name is not a name of our culture. It is not a name of our religion. She was given a Catholic name so that a family could take her in as their own if my grandmother was killed.
My grandmother saw her entire village massacred by soldiers. Her father was murdered. Her mother was murdered. We do not know how my grandmother, just a teenager at the time, survived. But she survived. She was alone in a country torn apart by war. She was alone in a country that was killing her people because of her religion. She was alone.
At some point she became pregnant. There was a ray of humanity in the one soldier who told a pregnant teenager what stop she should get off the train so that she would be safe. That soldier likely saved her life. There was humanity in the Ukrainian family that took her in, that kept her safe, and was willing to take my mother in as their own if harm were to come to my grandmother.
My mother and grandmother were kicked out of the country where my mother was born because of their religion. The war was over, but they were still unwelcome. My mother and grandmother were refugees. My mother’s earliest memory is of being alone in a crib in an orphanage. At some point, she and my grandmother ended up in a refugee camp. My mother and grandmother eventually made their way to Canada where much of my family had settled before the war.
When I was a child, our synagogue was burned down by the caretaker who was anti-Semitic. My earliest memories of religious school and services are in a church that took in our congregation. While I experienced such an incredible act of hate as a child, my memory is of the community that took us in.
I like to focus on the humanity – the Nazi soldier that saved my grandmother’s life, the Ukrainian family that risked their lives to take in my grandmother and mother, the church that gave a temporary home to my synagogue. But I have seen so much hate this past year because of a presidential candidate. I am scared. I always look for the silver lining in the clouds but I am terrified of the storm that has been created. Regardless of the outcome of the election, people in our country have been mobilized [by] hate – including hate against me and my family because of our religion and ethnicity.
