“We saw on the television that other countries in the region were having political problems, but they always seemed to fix themselves. So when people began to demonstrate in our town, we didn’t think much of it. Then the government began to crack down by arresting people. People were disappearing. So I made a point of being very non-political. I avoided the areas where demonstrations were occurring. I wouldn’t even associate with people who I knew were political. But one night a group of soldiers came to our house and asked for our IDs. They seemed very nice. They were polite. So we felt very relaxed. My father brought them downstairs to examine the basement. We didn’t see him again for eleven days.”

“While they were searching the basement, some shooting began on the streets outside, and the soldiers grew very nervous. I tried to make friendly conversation. I wasn’t worried because there was nothing in our house to find. But they grew very cold. They said: ‘We can’t trust you.’ They grabbed me and led me to a van. I told them: ‘I’m an old man. I’m not a threat.’ But they didn’t listen. On our way to the prison, they kept stopping on the street and collecting more people. They blindfolded me when we arrived and they beat me very badly. Then they put me with seventy other people in a room smaller than this one. It was very cold because it was December, and I was barefoot because I’d lost my slippers. There was nothing but a hole in the ground for a toilet. We all had to face the wall. Anyone who looked toward the door would be shot. We stayed there for ten days. I barely slept or ate. There was no room to even sit down. Occasionally a guard would throw bread through the window for people to grab. I thought I’d eventually be executed. But on the eleventh day, they called my name, and released me out into the cold to find my way home.”

“Ten days passed and we hadn’t heard anything. So we were starting to lose hope. Then one night there was a knock on the door. We didn’t have electricity in the house so it was very dark. I was very scared. I thought the soldiers were coming back for me. When I opened the door, I didn’t even recognize him at first. He was very dirty and barefoot. I thought he was from the street. Finally I realized that it was him and I started crying and screaming: 'My father is home! My father is home!' But he didn’t say a word. He didn’t want to talk for a long time.”

“We even tried to stay in our home after my father was arrested. I wanted to go right away, but my father was too afraid because he thought we’d be stopped at a checkpoint and he’d be taken again. But two months later, my son was hit by a motorcycle outside of our house. His face was burned and bruised and his leg was broken. There were no more ambulances in our town, so I had to bring him to the hospital myself. When I got there, it was empty. There were no doctors left. I had to wrap his leg myself with the help of an anesthesiologist, but I messed it up. I knew then that we had to leave. When we get to America, the leg will need to be broken again.”