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We would have come to the States one year earlier, in 1982. We had already passed the infamous immigration tests, sold our six goats, and begun to say goodbye to our fellow villagers. But in the final days, right before we were to leave our village forever, my half-sister Mulu came from another region of Sudan, surprising us. Although we were scheduled to depart in a matter of days, my father and mother refused to leave without her. They begged the immigration officials. YOU HAVE CHILDREN, DON'T YOU? WOULD YOU GO TO AMERICA AND LEAVE YOUR DAUGHTER ALONE IN THIS REFUGEE CAMP? "Look," they told us, "World Relief agreed to work with a family of five, not a family of six. They agreed to bring you now, not later, and it's impossible for her to come with you now. She has no paperwork." World Relief was a U.S.-based Christian organization that sought refugees from all over the world and helped them to resettle in the United States. Millions of my people had become refugees during the 30-year bloodbath between Ethiopia and Eritrea. Most had fled to Sudan. Seeing their plight, World Relief had mediated an agreement between the United States. and Sudan to resettle some of the refugees. As part of the resettling process, World Relief would have to identify American sponsors who would find the refugees housing, furniture, jobs, medical treatment, and schools--everything that they would need to get on their feet. But before a family could qualify for resettlement, it had to pass the infamous tests. No one knew which answers were right and which were wrong. "Why do you want to go to America? What will you do when you get there? Do you want to come back to your country some day? Do you plan to work in America?" Many clever interviewees had failed despite giving the same answers as those who had passed. Others had passed after giving the same answers as those who had failed. My father made one thing clear as we headed into our interview: He would speak for all of us. DON'T ANY OF YOU SAY A WORD OR I WILL MAKE YOU LOST. LET ME DO ALL THE TALKING. Apparently, he told the officials what they wanted to hear, and they told us what we wanted to hear: "You are going to America! To a city called Chicago." The officials insisted that we had to leave Mulu behind because she had not applied with the rest of us. But my parents refused to leave her. Returning day after day, sometimes three times a day, my father wore down the officials until they finally caved in. She could come if we waited one year. We waited, the year passed, and six of us started on our way: my father,
Haileab, in his late forties; my mother, Tsege, in her mid-twenties; my
half-sister, Mulu, in her late teens; my older brother, Tewolde, nine;
my younger sister, Mehret, five; and I, Selamawi, almost seven years old.
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