Coming to America

Remembering who we are

By Mary Yousif

We may be thousands of miles away from our homeland, but the essence of who we are shouldn’t fade with distance. For Chaldean Americans including myself and many others – children of immigrants, either born or raised in a new world – our existence is defined by an ongoing struggle between embracing the culture we inhabit and holding on to our identity. We are fortunate to live in a country that has given us opportunity, safety, and freedom, and for that, we are endlessly grateful. Yet, amid the beauty of assimilation, we should always remember the subtle, strong reminders of our origins.

Our roots aren’t something to tuck away in family photo albums or only recall during specific occasions. They are embedded in our everyday lives – in how we think, how we nurture our families, how we seek faith in struggle, and how we come together. Being Chaldean means embracing a history that spans back thousands of years, one reflected in our language, our prayers, and even our sense of humor. Maintaining that goes beyond nostalgia – it’s identity.

Too often, culture becomes simplified into food, music, and celebrations. But our heritage is so much more than that. It’s our way of life. It’s found in the Aramaic phrases our parents use, the humility that guides our work ethic, and the collective resilience we inherit just by being who we are. Keeping our language alive, teaching our children the meaning behind our traditions, and carrying our ancestors’ stories forward – these are acts of resistance, remembrance, and love.

Because being Chaldean American isn’t just about blending into a new world; it’s about ensuring that our old one still lives within us.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that the best way to honor your past is to live with purpose in the present – to never let the sacrifices your family made fade into silence. My family carries many stories worth cherishing, each one stitched with love, struggle, and faith. But the story that always finds its way back to me is the journey of my mother’s family coming to America. It’s a quiet reminder that I carry the weight of their dreams – dreams that have shaped my education, my career, and even the smallest choices I make each day.

My story begins with my grandfather, Basil. Like many men of his time, he had served for years in the Iraqi military. But in 1979, everything changed. He was drafted to serve in the Iraq-Iran War that would soon erupt. It was a time of deep uncertainty – especially for my grandfather, who had a wife, three young daughters, and a newborn son to protect. He faced a harrowing choice: stay and risk his family’s safety or leave and risk never returning.

The decision wasn’t one taken lightly. Ultimately, my grandfather made the decision to leave. It meant leaving behind generations of roots, his extended family, and above all, the familiarity of home. Yet, in that act of leaving, he chose survival over comfort, courage over certainty – the kind of bravery that would later shape what it means for me to be Chaldean American.

You see, my mother was only six years old when she left Iraq. Too young to truly understand what was happening, her memories of that time are hazy – more like fragments of emotion than full scenes. It wasn’t until she grew older that she learned from others what truly happened the night before they fled.

The house was heavy with sorrow. My grandmother with her legs twisted had fallen, clutching the floors, tears streaming down her face as she cried, “I don’t want to leave! I don’t want to leave!” over and over again. The sound of her anguish fills the room, echoing off the walls of a life they were about to abandon.

Nearby, my grandfather spoke quietly but firmly with his father. My great-grandfather, eyes heavy with concern, urged him, “Leave Jakleen (my mother) here. Let her stay with me and your mother.” But my grandfather’s voice held firm: “I am taking all of the children with me. No one is staying here.” And with that, the decision was final. For a moment, a deep sadness crossed my great-grandfather’s face, a quiet mourning for a decision he understood but could not change.

All around them, my grandfather’s sisters and their husbands stand in silence, their faces mirrors of sadness and uncertainty, knowing nothing would ever feel the same. And then the children – my mother clutching my grandfather’s side, her siblings huddled close – looking out at a future unknown, tethered only to each other amid the storm of goodbye.

Their escape was long and uncertain. My mother’s family was smuggled across borders – through Turkey, Bulgaria, and what was then Yugoslavia – until they finally reached Greece. In those early days in Athens, my grandfather was overcome with homesickness. He spent long nights drinking, crying quietly to the haunting voice of Umm Kulthum and Saadi Al-Bayati, the songs of home echoing in a place that wasn’t his. He longed to return, convinced that maybe things would be better, that maybe he could reclaim what they had lost.

But other families who had fled alongside them urged him not to go back. They told him the truth he didn’t want to face – that returning meant risking his family’s lives. And so, with the help of others who understood that same heartbreak, he stayed. He swallowed his longing forcing back the ache in his chest each night, a sorrow that would stretch on for three long years until their Red Cross application was finally approved.

Chicago or Detroit. Those were the two options given to my grandfather. Chicago had few familiar faces, but Detroit offered something more – distant relatives, a small sense of belonging in a strange new world. So, he chose Detroit, planting roots once again, this time in a land where everything had to be rebuilt from the ground up. Yes, they survived. But the real journey - the ultimate test - awaited them in Detroit.

Forty-six years later…

Every success I achieve, every dream I chase, feels tied to that decision my grandfather made – to leave, to stay strong, and to start again. It reminds me that I carry the weight of generations who refused to let fear erase their identity and that realization gives me purpose to the life I’ve built today. Over the years, my grandfather was strict with his children, determined to preserve our identity despite being far from home. Growing up, my mother held that same belief and did the exact same with my brother and me.

I hope my story conveys the strength of our past and how it continues to define us, safeguarding our traditions, values, and the way we live. By preserving our culture and holding onto the traditions of those who came before us, we keep alive a connection to a land we can no longer call home. And so, every choice I make, every dream I pursue, carries their courage forward – proof that the past is not behind us, but lives within us, guiding who we are and who we will become.