Immigrants tell of finding freedom
Immigrants tell of finding freedom
By FRANZISKA CASTILLO
THE JOURNAL NEWS
(Original publication: July 4, 2004)
Though slave-holding Thomas Jefferson did not always live by the tenets =
of
the Declaration of Independence he drafted in 1776, his words held out a
promise of freedom and equality that would be widely copied around the
world.
In the past, our nation sometimes failed to keep that promise to all
Americans. Still, many believe Jefferson's document, approved 228 years =
ago
today, created a basis for all the fights that would lead us closer to
equality - from the struggles that ended slavery to those that gave =
women
the right to vote.
Among those celebrating today's holiday are our nation's immigrants, =
some
engaged in their own continuing struggles for a better life. Whether =
they
are seeking an economic freedom as simple as earning a living wage, or =
have
escaped brutality under totalitarian regimes, most came to the United =
States
looking for some chance at liberty that they could not find in their
countries of origin.
Here, three immigrants reflect on what it means to be free, mainly in =
their
own words:
Alberto Villate
Yonkers businessman Alberto Villate was born in Cuba in September 1958, =
four
months before Fidel Castro's rebels would march, victorious into Havana,
having ousted Fulgencio Batista, the island's dictator since 1933. After
largely hiding their anti-Castro stance for five years because they =
feared
persecution, the Villates arrived in Yonkers at the end of 1965. Today,
Villate lives with his Scottish-born wife and two children, 13 and 11, =
and
heads the Yonkers Hispanic Chamber of Commerce.
"My parents had been fairly apolitical. (Then, in late 1960) the =
communists
basically came into my father's (dry cleaning business) and said it was =
no
longer his. He resisted. They got one of his French irons, a very heavy
iron, and they stoved his head in. Afterwards, he went into a coma, and =
had
three brain surgeries and 230-something stitches.
"At the time, my mother was pregnant with my sister, so it was very
traumatic. They said, 'You know, we have to get out of here' ... but no =
one
really wants to leave their country. Everybody thought, 'Well, the U.S. =
is
going to step in and fix this.' But, that didn't happen.
"I remember going to first grade in Cuba and always having this fear =
that
someone would find out we were not pro-communist.
"We would have merienda in school, which is like snack time. (The =
teachers)
would say to us, 'Why don't you ask God for a snack,' and we would ... =
and
nothing would happen. ... And then they would say, 'Ask (Fidel Castro),' =
and
they would give us our snacks. I remember not being able to trust =
anybody.
My grandmother would tell us, 'Play dumb, play along.' When Nikita
Khrushchev came to Havana, we had to go to the parade (even though we =
were
anti-communist). If we had stayed home, we would have been sent to cut =
cane,
or something worse.
"The day we left Cuba, I remember vividly asking my parents whether we =
would
come back. It was a gray day and my father and I went for our last walk
around the block. Despite everything that had happened to him, my father =
was
always very talkative ... a typical Cuban storyteller. My recollection =
was
just how eerily silent he was that day, and just looking up at him.
"I can't say it was a free country (before Castro) - Batista was a =
dictator,
and we just switched from one dictator to another. My parents never =
thought
we would live in New York, but all of a sudden, things happened that =
were
out of their control.
"Sometimes I find myself more patriotic than my peers who were born =
here. I
think a good portion of that is that I know what its like not to have
freedom.
"There have been times (in the United States) when certain freedoms have
been threatened. But ... one of the great things about our system is =
that
there's a big hue and cry. The ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union) and =
the
human rights groups step in. I agree with them, sometimes. Sometimes I
don't, but the beauty of America is that those voices do get heard. It's
discussed. It's not, 'Lump it or leave it.'
"I've always wondered what if my dad had been more temperate, what if he =
had
said, 'Sure, take my business.' Would we still be in Cuba? I know (my
parents) did what they thought was right. I have to give them respect =
for
having the courage of their convictions."
Timothy Chhim
Between 1975 and 1979, the Khmer Rouge regime killed nearly 1.7 million
Cambodians and tortured, imprisoned and forcibly relocated millions =
more.
Timothy Chhim was one of a small minority - about 11,000 people - who
escaped Cambodia in the 1970s and reached safe harbor in the United =
States.
Now the owner of an insurance agency in Nanuet, Chhim, 49, came to =
Jersey
City, N.J., as a refugee in October 1976 with his wife, Neang. Today he =
has
three children, Rojana, 26, Suzanna, 19, and Anthony, 18, and is writing =
a
book about his life.
"In April 1975 I was a student in the capital city, and worked for the
government part time, (so I was considered an undesirable element by the
Khmer Rouge). They pushed us from the city, and herded us into the
countryside, where (many people) were sent to be killed by the communist
insurgents.
"I ran from the Khmer Rouge death row where I was waiting to be sent to =
the
killing fields. Later, I escaped from Cambodia with 11 other people. =
From
then on it was just nonstop walking and running through the jungle. We
climbed mountains. ... We slept up in the trees at night. You don't =
fully
sleep, you just half sleep, so you don't get eaten by tigers. Some =
groups
like ours, they either stepped on land mines or got shot by the =
communists.
In the upper part of the country, many people died of thirst.
"We got to Thailand August 18, 1975, four months after I was kicked out =
of
Phnom Penh (Cambodia's capital) along with millions of other people. =
Only
three people (of my group of 11) had survived.
"I was so sick with malaria, I thought I was going to die. Luckily, I =
was
saved by a Thai woman who saw me limping (in Khun Han, Si Sa Ket, near =
the
Cambodian border) and took me to a doctor."
After Chhim met his wife, Neang, in a Thai refugee camp, the couple won
entry to the United States. The two other men who escaped Cambodia with =
him
eventually emigrated to France, and Chhim never saw them again. His =
mother
died in 1988 without ever seeing Chhim again, and his father was killed =
in
the war. Besides Neang and their American-born children, Chhim has only =
a
second cousin in the United States.
"When we landed in Newark Airport at night, it was unbelievable. There =
were
so many lights. We were coming from a country, almost a prehistoric =
country,
to one of the richest countries on Earth. Everything was a shock and =
awe,
like President Bush said. We were crying. I was a little over 20 years =
and
my wife was 17.
"The person who took us in was a priest, Father Arthur J. Pederson, in
Jersey City, 9 Grace Church. We lived in a small basement apartment ... =
but
that was heaven to us at that time.
"Father Pederson, God rest his soul, for countless days, he was looking =
for
somebody who speaks our language. There was a major problem because my =
wife
was pregnant (with Rojana) and we (couldn't) communicate with anyone. =
When
my wife gave birth, she had no way to talk to the doctors. I was outside
(the delivery room) walking in circles, hearing my wife scream.
"A year later we were still struggling to learn the language. Just going
shopping, you didn't know what you were buying. My wife had to open =
every
container to see what was inside. We didn't know what was salt or sugar.
They looked alike so we had to taste them. Finally we found someone who
spoke our language, in Trenton, one year after my daughter was born.
"I washed dishes until 2 at night to get money to go to school. I worked =
as
a dishwasher and in the factory, in the supermarket sweeping the floors. =
We
had enough money just for food to eat. A nurse in my wife's doctor's =
office
gave us a crib, clothing, all of that."
After studying computer science at Hudson County Community College, =
Chhim
got a job in the early 1980s with the Allstate Insurance Co., and =
eventually
managed to open his own agency. Today he and his family live in a house =
they
own in Thiells.
"I have to say I was among the luckiest to come this far. We came here =
with
nothing on our backs, now we have houses, good jobs, a good business. To
make it in the U.S., I would say you have to suffer and struggle first. =
You
have everything from A to Z here, and you have to take advantage of it. =
I
always want Americans to remember that - don't take freedom for granted =
-
because I know what it was like to have none of it."
Yvette Christofilis
Yvette Christofilis, the descendant of Greek, French and Irish =
immigrants to
the Bahamas, came from the Caribbean to the Bronx to study at Mount St.
Vincent College in September 1974. Once here, she began a decades-long
battle to accept her identity as a lesbian despite what she called =
deeply
ingrained homophobia and sexism in her home culture. Christofilis is now =
the
executive director of The LOFT lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender
community center in White Plains, and lives nearby with her partner of =
28
years, Karen Carr.
"In the Bahamas ... if two people of the same sex were found having sex,
there was a mandatory jail sentence of 20 years. There are always people =
in
the population who can't hide, who just reek their orientation, and =
those
people were treated horribly. They would be verbally harassed, beaten up =
....
fired from their jobs.
"When I first started realizing my orientation, I put it away in a =
padlocked
room in the back of my mind.
"I always had this great fear that someone would find out and lock me up =
in
a mental institution. My sister was a nurse and would talk about the =
people
she saw (in the mental hospital). It seemed to me a lot of people were
getting locked up ... because they were gay."
After beginning college in the United States, Christofilis met Carr, and =
the
two began a relationship that continues today. But coming out was a slow
process, Christofilis said, because she feared she would face =
discrimination
upon returning to the Bahamas.
As part of a lesbian partnership, Carr could not sponsor Christofilis =
for a
green card the way a straight wife or husband could, a disparity that =
still
angers the couple. Eventually Christofilis became a citizen through her
brother on Dec. 15, 1993.
"I always felt more comfortable in the United States. There are many =
rights
(gays) still don't have here. ... Definitely there are no immigration
rights. But compared to the Bahamas we are light years ahead.
"I feel grateful for the Constitution of the United States. In my =
country,
you can fight and not get step one because of the stone wall in =
government.
In this country, if you understand the government and can form =
coalitions,
you can affect change for the better.
"I'm not one of the really optimistic people who thinks (we will win the
right to marry) in the next few years. But I thought I would die before =
I
heard the words "same-sex marriage" uttered seriously, so I'm really not
concerned about the length of the fight."
Reach Franziska Castillo at or
914-966-4053.Reach Franziska Castillo at or
914-966-4053.
http://www.nyjournalnews.com/newsroom/070404/a0104freedom.html
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