by Susan Kuklin
“Why?” She told me that she didn’t want me to work for them anymore.
“I need to know the reason. I’ve been working three months. I’m never late. I never missed a day. Every time I learn one job, you send me to a different job. And I do a good job on each one. I want to know the reason why I’m fired.”
“Just give me the damn ID.”
“I’m not going to give it you. I’m not going nowhere.”
She lied and said that the supervisor I was working under told her that I had a mental problem.
“Have I ever had a problem with anyone at work?”
“I don’t care. Just give me the damn ID.”
“Okay.” I threw down the ID. Then guards walked me to my locker like I had done something really bad. After I took out all my stuff, they walked me to the parking lot and waited till I left.
When I moved to America, I learned that I had rights. I decided to see if this was true. The next day, I found myself a lawyer and told him what happened. He sent me to the doctor to check if I had a mental problem. I didn’t. Then we went to the court and I sued the company. The manager never showed up. She was lying. I proved that I didn’t have no mental problem. And the company had to pay me. This is a good country.
Through Job Corps, I was able to get a Certified Assistant Nursing degree, and I went to work at a nursing home, taking care of elderly people. It was a very good job. But even though I was working full-time at the nursing home, day care for two girls didn’t leave me with much money. One of my friends lived in Minnesota. She told me that in Minnesota they helped with day care and school. I still couldn’t read English good. (I can now. Now I can read books and everything in English.) I told Bol that we had to move to Minnesota. “If I can have a chance to go to school, I have to go to Minnesota.”
“Okay, you and the kids can go. I’ll stay here and work.” That’s what Bol told me.
I loved Minnesota. That’s my favorite state. In the winter, it’s cold, and it snowed a lot, but they did a good job clearing the roads. I moved with my kids and stayed in my friend’s house. I got a job right away, packing frozen food. Soon after I started work, I applied for my own apartment. Bol followed us to Minnesota. Things were good.
The next year, I went back to Tennessee to visit Kimberly, the shelter lady who had been so kind to me. My brother Michael, who still lived in Tennessee, had softened towards me. He waited in a car with my kids while I knocked on Kimberly’s office door.
When she opened it, I gave her a big hug.
She was, like, “Can I help you?” She didn’t recognize me.
“Did you know a girl who used to live in your shelter? Nyarout?”
“Yeah, that little girl. She left a long time ago, I don’t even know if she’s okay. She never writes letters; she never calls. Is something going on with her?”
“No, nothing’s going on with her. She’s the one who’s talking to you right now.”
“No, no, get out of here!” She stared at me, patting my back, “Look at you! Oh, my God, now you’re so big. You’ve grown; you’ve gained weight.”
“Yeah, I’m growing.”
I told Kimberly that when I left her, I couldn’t say thank you for all that she did for me because I didn’t speak enough English. I didn’t have a voice to say it. “I wanted to come back because now I can speak English; now I can properly thank you.” She was crying, and I was crying. When I left Tennessee for Florida, Kimberly had given me two dolls. I said, “Do you remember the two dolls that you gave me?”
“Yeah.”
“They’ve become real.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have two daughters,” and then I called to my brother to bring my daughters to us. Kimberly cried while hugging my girls.
I was so happy that I could tell Kimberly how much I appreciated what she had done for me.
In 2007, I finally got my high-school diploma. I was proud. I had a diploma, a job, and two daughters. I was working at another nursing home when I became pregnant again. That’s when my son, Emanuel, was born.
The only problem was Bol. Bol loved holding on to money. He paid all the household bills, using both our salaries, but he would not give me extra cash. There were times when I didn’t have enough money to buy something to eat where I worked. Things were going from bad to worse with us.
My Florida cousin had moved to Omaha, Nebraska, and my brother David was living in Lincoln, Nebraska. I told my cousin I wanted to talk with David. I wanted to make peace with him. My cousin set up a meeting between us in her house.
I went to Nebraska and told David how I felt. “I don’t hate you for what happened, because it wasn’t your fault I had to marry that guy. You just wanted to follow the rule that our parents made. But what I needed from you, what made me angry, was that you kicked me out. You said, ‘If you don’t go to that guy’s house, you’re not going to live with me.’ That’s what you said. Being angry with you is not going to gain anything. I forgive you. You lost your leg saving my life. You brought me to this beautiful country. Here, if I get sick, I get treatment. I live in a good house. I have a job. I have a car. In Africa, I never had a job so that I could buy a car. I never even rode in a car. All that I have is because of you.” Then we started talking, really talking, again.
But my family back in Africa still didn’t talk to me much because they felt I had left my culture. In Africa, a woman doesn’t make her own choices. Here in the U.S., it’s different. I decided that, because I live in America, I can make my own choices. I couldn’t stay with a guy who I wasn’t in love with, you know? That’s why I made my own decision to be independent, to follow U.S. culture, not African culture.
I returned to Minnesota and broke up with Bol. I was taking care of three kids and working at the nursing home. I had to support my family here and also send money to my family back home.
That same year, 2007, I met Megho. He was from South Sudan but from a different tribe, the Anuak. We spoke different languages, so we communicated in English. We met because his niece and nephew were going to the same school as me. I was struggling with the ignition in my car. To fix the car cost two thousand dollars. At this time, I had no extra money to pay for the car repair. My kids were in day care or school. We had to walk to get there. It was in wintertime. Megho stepped up to help. He said, “Even though you don’t want to date me, I can still help you.”
He drove my son to day care and he drove my girls to school. After school, he picked me up, picked them up, dropped us off home. He was really nice.
After a while, I accepted him. He lived in his house, and I lived in my house, but he helped me with the kids. He helped me pay my bills. Sometimes he even sent money to my family back home. He treated my kids like they were his own kids. He was the best father ever. He wanted to have a child with me. I didn’t agree, because I was scared.
We were together for about two years before I got pregnant. That’s when I fell in love with him.
When I was four months pregnant, Megho went back to Africa to visit his family. When he returned — this was in 2009 — he changed. He became weird. He’d get mad at me really quick. I couldn’t understand why he changed so much. Finally he said, “I don’t want to confuse you. I found myself another girl, an Anuak girl.”
He moved the girl from Austin to Minneapolis, to the same apartment building that I lived in. I lived in the first floor, and the girl lived on the third floor. Then they moved in together. At that time, I was seven months pregnant.
That’s when I started talking to Nyarout in the mirror. “Take it easy. You can’t have stress right now. Don’t think about it.”
When the contractions came, I called Megho to take me to the hospital. He was kind. He stayed with me while my baby girl, Ajeal, was being born. During the delivery, I had had an epidural in my back, and my right leg went numb. I couldn’t feel my leg at all. I couldn’t do anything. When I came home, Megho didn’t want to help me, even though I could
n’t walk. He had that woman upstairs, and she was all he cared about. I was so stressed.
One of my best friends — she lives in Omaha right now — lived in the same apartment building as me. She’s like a sister to me. She helped me with the kids while I couldn’t walk. She worked in the morning, came back, cooked for me, cleaned the house for me, and took care of the kids. For three months, I had nobody except this friend. My older brother David was now living in Lincoln, Nebraska, but he couldn’t come and help me, because, well, he is a man, you know?
The very good thing about Minnesota is that the kids had a free school bus that picked them up in the morning and brought them home at night. I didn’t have to worry about that. After three months of physical therapy, my leg got better and I started walking.
Back when I was fake-married to the old guy, I went to a party and met a big man who had lots of muscles and a long beard. His name was Mai. He looked more African American than African. I couldn’t lay eyes on him directly because I was married. There was no way. But I thought about him a lot. After so many years, and four kids, I saw Mai again when I visited my family in Nebraska. (He had since moved there.) We became friends. Then we became close friends.
Mai said, “Here in Minnesota, you don’t know anybody; you don’t have family, only one friend. It’s better that you move to Nebraska.” I moved to Nebraska to be with him.
Mai and I were together from 2010 to 2016. I had my last baby with him, my son Bukjiok. I loved Mai. I still do. But he’s not able to make a lasting commitment. I was now a grown-up woman, right? Two of my kids were already teenagers. I was getting old. I didn’t want to run around with men. I wanted my kids to see me committed to a man I could marry. Mai was not capable of marrying me. He said he loved me, he even said he wanted to marry me, but he didn’t know when. For seven years I thought, maybe he’s gonna change, maybe he’s gonna change, maybe he’s gonna change. But he didn’t change.
After my son Bukjiok was born, I talked to Nyarout in the mirror again. “Why is he here? He takes no responsibility, even for his own son.” After I talked to Nyarout in the mirror, I totally blocked my heart. I saw a lot of things that I couldn’t see before. I felt really bad about my life. I felt terrible.
I told Mai, “I thought we could be better people together. I thought we could be a couple. I thought we could be a family. But I feel like you are not willing to be a stable man. You’re not helping me.” I told him to leave.
And he left.
In 2014, I went. Back to Africa to see my mom, my other brothers and sisters who had stayed behind. By now, my brothers and sisters all had kids of their own. I never did get to see my father. The civil war was going on, and my father was away. I think he was working as an adviser to the military.
My grandmother wanted to see me, but she was afraid to leave her village. She said that she wanted to hold me one more time before she died — I think she was ninety-eight years old. She said, “I don’t want to die before I see you. I’m going to wait until you come.” I went to her village in Ethiopia. She could only see me with one eye; she had cataracts. “I can’t believe that you’re here. You’re here.” She cried and hugged me and hugged me. When I stood up, she said, “I’m not done. I don’t have enough of you.” And she hugged me some more. “I don’t want you to go back.”
“But what about my kids? I have kids over there. If I didn’t have kids, I would stay.”
“Okay, I will give you many blessings that you will have many, many kids.”
“Don’t bless me with more children; bless me with more money.”
In Africa, I realized how much I had changed. Of course, I’m still an African person, but my life is so different now. The food they eat doesn’t taste good to me anymore. I can’t sleep on the ground anymore. I tried it, but my back hurt so much. My African family walks long distances. I’m used to driving everywhere, not walking. And, most important, I say and do what I think, not what others tell me to think. I still love my culture. I love my people. But I love my American independence too. I would say I’ve become a Sudanese American.
With the money I made in America, I could build my family a house in Gambela. If I had stayed in Africa and had an arranged marriage, I probably wouldn’t have been able to build my parents a house. In Africa, a married woman pretty much stays in her husband’s home. I’d have to cook and do everything for my husband’s parents, not my own parents. But because I’m in America and I’m not married, I can make my own way and help my own parents.
Me and my kids have a very good relationship. I tell them about the things I went through, but I encourage them not to be stressed by it. “I have you guys and that’s all that matters.” I tell them that we live in a country where they can go to school, have a good job, buy a beautiful house. It’s up to them. I live paycheck to paycheck, but I’m doing it for them. I do not want their life to be a struggle like my life was. They listen to me. They do good in school. They do outside activities. Nyagoa plays in a marching band, and Nyabima plays basketball and is a cheerleader. Everyone is doing pretty good.
I’m a supervisor for the all-night shift for custodial services at UNL [University of Nebraska, Lincoln]. I supervise the staff as they clean the classrooms. If I’m bored, or think I could fall asleep, I clean too. The university doesn’t pay good, but it provides good benefits. My children will be able to go to the University of Nebraska, and that means so much to me. On my off days, I’m a cashier at a gas station. I still advise myself in the mirror. My life has been a struggle, yes; I’m still struggling, yes, but I’m happy.
And David? David had moved to Africa for five years. When he came back, he moved into my house. He is a pastor at our church. He also drives a taxi to help with expenses. Before he moved in, I’d come back from work, take the kids to school, sleep from ten to about two o’clock, and pick up the kids from school. I could only sleep three or four hours a day. After David came back, I was able to sleep till four in the afternoon. I drive the kids to school in the morning and David picks them up after school.
When David was in Africa, he left his car at my house. The kids would say, “Mom, is this your car?”
“No, it’s Uncle David’s car.” That’s how they knew that they had an Uncle David. But the little ones didn’t remember him, because they were so young when he left. The little ones always called the car “Uncle David Car.”
When David returned, they said, “Uncle David? You are real? We thought you were a car.”
David and I are very close again. We’ve been through great changes and came out all right. But when David moved in, I told him, “You live in my house now. I’m in charge.”
In the previous chapter, Nyarout, who has lived in the United States for many years, is able to describe how she changed from an African girl to a South Sudanese American woman. Meet Shireen. Shireen has lived in Lincoln, Nebraska, for only three months and has not yet had time to adjust to a new way of life. She is still struggling to cope with the enormous brutality inflicted on her and her family. All the other participants in this book were resettled along with family members. Shireen came alone. Shireen is Yazidi.
The Yazidis (also known as Yezidi or Eˆzidî) are an independent ethnic society that mostly inhabited the Sinjar region in Northern Iraq. Throughout their long and fabled history, they have survived seventy-three genocides. Theirs is an ancient religion, spread orally by holy men, that is related to Zoroastrianism, Mithraism, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. According to Yazidi belief, God created the universe from fragments of a pearl globe. He painted the earth in the bright colors of a peacock’s feathers and sent his chief angel, Tawusi Melek, as a link between Himself and the people. On earth, Tawusi Melek took the form of a peacock. When some Iraqis heard about the Peacock Angel, they misinterpreted the imagery and called the Yazidis “devil worshippers.” This led to extreme violence directed against the Yazidis, from the time of the Ottoman Empire (1299-1922) to the rise of ISIS (also known as ISIL or Daesh).<
br />
Shireen and forty-seven members of her family were caught in the net of ISIS terror that began in August 2014. Eighteen are still missing. She speaks Kurmanji, a Kurdish dialect. Hadi Pir, the vice president of the Yazda Cultural Center in Lincoln, Nebraska, acted as our interpreter. Later, Saad Babir and Laila Khoudeida graciously translated our recordings and correspondence. Laila also provided additional material.
Though reliving the details of her life in captivity is extremely painful, Shireen continues to courageously speak out so that the massacre of her people will not be lost in history’s dustbin. Shireen says, “We Yazidis are a simple and peaceful people. We don’t hurt anyone. Throughout our history, we have faced persecutions. For this reason, I ask the international community, especially the United States, to protect us. Continue to liberate our abducted people from ISIS captivity. Don’t forget us.”
Shireen continues, “Anytime I meet someone who escaped from ISIS, I ask them about my family members. Are they still with ISIS? Are they dead? No one has seen them. I keep these pictures with me always because I miss them.”
My name is Shireen. I am twenty-six years old. I was born in Rambossy, a village south of Sinjar, in Northern Iraq. I lived on a farm with thirteen members of my family. I am the third child in my family. When I was ten years old, not quite ten years old, my father died of a cardiovascular disease and my mother died from a cerebral vascular sickness. My older sister was married with kids and living away from home. I was the next oldest female at home. I stopped going to school to take care of my younger brothers and sisters. My uncles, aunts, and cousins all lived nearby. We worked in the fields together, growing tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, onions, barley, and wheat. Our life was good. We were satisfied with what we had.
On August 3, 2014, ISIS attacked the Yazidi land in the Sinjar district. We were on our farm near Rambossy. My uncle was away, fighting ISIS militants on the border of the Gerzarek village. He called and said, “We are leaving the town because we cannot hold it anymore. You need to go to Sinjar Mountain.”