Without the courage and resilience of my grandfather, I wouldn’t be here in this country. I wouldn’t have privilege. I may not have food or housing or the respect I deserve as a woman.
Or I may not be alive. I may never have been born.
Somewhere back in each of our histories, I can imagine that we have the one person who was a refugee, an alien in a new land during a time of exile. In the diaspora, they were strangers and lived on the grace and hospitality of others.
Exodus 22 says that we “shall not wrong or oppress a resident alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.”
My grandfather was an alien, a refugee.
My grandfather told me the ugly stories of genocide, of wandering around the Caucasus region for years as an Armenian during and after…
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