I still remember that August day in 1978, when I was almost fifteen. I sat in the window seat of a DC 10, looking out the airplane’s window at mom. She was holding my sisters, standing on the airport tarmac of Tripoli Airport, waving at the airplane. I knew that she was crying, because I was crying. Dad sat next to me, telling me to buckle my seat belt.
“Cheer up. You are going high school in America. It’s the best place for you to learn and have a good education. As a girl, you’ll never have a future in Libya, whereas America is the land of opportunities and you will be the first in our family to live there. You are my eldest daughter, and I want you to be brave. Your mom and I will eventually join you there in a few more years when I can wrap up my work here in Libya."
And so it happened, coming to America. Dad and I flew on Scandinavian Airlines to Boston via Switzerland. He dropped me off at my future guardians’ house in Boston, kissed me goodbye, and flew back to Libya where mom and my sisters were waiting. He went back to work as a telecommunications engineer for the Libyan army, a post he held since 1962.
