21

© Copyright 2021 – Dorothy M. Love

All rights reserved. This book is protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise – without the prior permission of the author, except as provided by USA copyright law.

Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New King James Version (NKJV). Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked KJV are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. All Scripture quotations are taken from The Message, (MSG), copyright © 1993, 2002, 2018 by Eugene H. Peterson. Used by permission of NavPress. All rights reserved. Represented by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. The Holy Bible, New International Version, NIV Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblical, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Limit of Liability and Disclaimer of Warranty: The design, content, editorial accuracy, and views expressed or implied in this work are those of each individual contributor. Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by the author, nor does the author vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book. The author regrets any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist but accepts no responsibility for any such changes.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN (Print): 978-1-09837-707-6

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-09837-708-3

This book is the product of Love & Associates, LLC, produced as a mentoring and coaching resource. For more information, contact Dorothy M. Love, CEO, Love & Associates, LLC at email address: dlove21@gmail.com; 916-502-4725.

Dedication

To My family; My life; My legacy:

My sweet mother, Ethel and stepfather, Willie, and my biological father, Adell, all resting in heaven, and I am thankful for their love for and to me.

My children, my reasons to just keep moving:

Michelle, Larissa, Christine and Timothy, and his lovely wife, Nadiyah.

And my Grandchildren

LaQuesha, Jasmine, Marc, Dominique, Nicole, Naimah, Ajanae, (my) Elijah, Mekhi, Micah, Maryam, Isa, Joshua, Elias, Amirah, Timothy Jr. (2T), bonus granddaughter, Kweli

And Great Grandchildren

Bobby, Rico, the twins: Taz and Talia, Baby Tru,

and those yet to come.....

To my extended family and friends who have encouraged and supported me with love and covered me with prayer, my heart smiles with gratitude.

Contents

Preface The Vantage Point

My Journey as a Refugee by Mulu Afework

The Process and the Purpose by Angelique Bailey

Church Hurts by Glory Hope

The Storm of Yesteryear by Jana Brewer

An Army of Angels by Ramona Crossley

The Tie That Binds by Kristin Rich

Pursued by Tish Rivera

The Amazing Endless Grace and Mercy of God by Esinam

I Am Validated by Larissa Love

His Blood Restores by Elisha Jones

My Story by Thelma Howard

Trusting God through the Storms of Life by Cindy Tyler-Costa

Untitled by Doral Valley

I Do by Anita Joseph

Embraced by Love, Healed by Grace by Elena Cirstea

My Life Is Not My Own by Suki Kaur

The Blood of the Lamb and the Words of My Testimony by Ashley Austin

Things That Crawl from Under Rocks by Gloria J. Cunningham

Third Time the Charm by Christine Love

God Had a Plan by Tina Tranzor

Tracks of My Tears by Bambi Ward

Acknowledgments

The Author

Preface

The Vantage Point

It is my pleasure to introduce this book to you with great anticipation that you will be encouraged and find the freedom to begin to embrace your journey and eventually enjoy it. Whether you purchased this book or received it as a gift, know with certainty that, intentionally, it landed in your hands. Placed in your hand is half the journey; reading it is the other half. Let’s get busy. Don’t be a spectator. Get involved in your jo urney.

This book is an anthology, a string of short stories strung together like pearls with one theme: hope; one foundation: fear; and one turning point in each writer’s life that I call the vantage point. The women are vastly different, from different locations and having different experiences, observing whatever is at the center of their attention, what it is they are striving to find. It matters not where they started; they all end connected at the vantage point. Most people look from the vantage point, but in these ladies’ stories, the vantage point is looking at them. I challenge you to embrace each story. Should you find yourself within the pages, I pray you find hope. If you do not find yourself within the pages, be grateful for that. Maybe you dodged a bullet.

I have always dreamed of writing a book. I had the title and all the substance to write it from beginning to end, but it was not this book titled 21. I could deal with writing a book about my journey, but to collaborate with twenty-one women telling their stories and penning them—well, that was not my desire. God wanted me on this journey to teach me about the characteristics of love and humility and the power of a story.

Unbeknownst to me, this book would come about when two friends and I traveled to Los Angeles to attend the 100-year celebration of the Azusa Street Revival. The revival was renowned for a few reasons. First, it ignited a strong desire in the hearts of people to return to God. In a time of racial segregation, it attracted Blacks and Whites worldwide and was led by an African American gentleman named William Seymour. Although it started somewhat racially united, it ended racially divided. Out of this revival came the birth of the Pentecostal faith giving us racially divided churches once again. For the Blacks, the Church of God in Christ. For the Whites, the Assemblies of God, and Church of God. But today we were a mixed multitude attending this memorable celebration.

Upon our arrival, we checked into our hotel, scheduled a time we would gather for dinner, and retreated to our rooms to make ourselves comfortable. My friend and dear sister Carol and I were well acquainted, but our other sister I only knew by face and name. Another friend had told us about her desire to attend the celebration and she wanted a traveling partner, so we connected. She was one of the sweetest people I could ever meet. Her name is Mulu.

I arrived at the hotel restaurant and found Mulu sitting alone, waiting for us. We greeted each other, and then the conversation ensued. I love meeting people, really meeting them. I sincerely want to know about the person and their interests, inspiration, and life ideology, not just the surface, passing the time in conversation. After we finished our introductions, we moved into deeper waters. I was curious enough to ask an openly bold question: I asked her to tell me her story.

I guessed she sensed my sincerity in knowing her better and began to share her story. The more she shared, the larger my eyes became and the wider my mouth fell open. I will not tell you her story; I will let you read it for yourself. The entire weekend we were together was an adventure. It was one glorious experience after another, and the more we shared, the more we knew about each other, all three of us. We became connected sisters.

Upon returning home, I couldn’t wait to tell our Bible study director, Pastor Mary, about her story. I impressed upon her that it would be nice to share testimonies during our women’s Bible study, starting with Mulu’s story. After I told her Mulu’s story, she agreed, and the journey began. I assisted Mulu in writing her testimony as concisely as possible to be shared in a short amount of time. The night came, and her testimony was the last item on the evening’s agenda. Mulu stepped up to the podium, notes in hand, and began to tell her story. The audience was in awe, just as I had been the first time I heard her story. Because her story started when she was just a teenager of sixteen, the youth in the room could hardly believe it. Nonetheless, they were encouraged by her courage. Once she finished and stepped down, the audience bombarded her with questions and accolades.

As I was exiting the room, a young lady named Tina, whom I didn’t know, got my attention. I knew she was an educator, but that was about all I knew. She asked me if I had written the testimony for Mulu to share. I hesitated to answer because it was Mulu’s story, and I didn’t want to distract from Mulu. I finally said yes, I had helped in composing it. She then looked at me and said, I hear God saying, ‘twenty-one’!

I asked, Twenty-one what?

She replied, Twenty-one, stories—testimonies!

Suddenly, someone said that twenty-one was not a good number. I thought, Praise God. I was glad to hear that because I had no intention of writing twenty-one testimonies. And that is where I left the conversation. The problem was, the conversation never left me, and it would surface at the most awkward times.

I tried to get it off my mind by repeating what I had heard, that twenty-one is not a good number. I didn’t know what that meant, except it got me off the hook for writing a book titled 21. I shared this occurrence with one of my pastors, and he said, Twenty-one—wow, that is a good number. It is three times seven, and everyone knows that seven is God’s number.

The dilemma in my head started again and worsened. I visited my friend Angela’s home to celebrate her husband’s birthday. One of the guests was her pastor, and as we were talking, he asked about what I was doing. By then, I had decided maybe I should reconsider the book. I told him that I was considering writing a book titled 21. He quickly said, That is a good number. It is God’s number multiplied three times! Done! I was convinced. I said yes to God: I would write the book.

Once I said yes, my next question to God was, Who and where are the twenty-one women? And why women only? It came with the revelation. Around that time, I attended a Sisters Retreat in the mountain, just us women having a fabulous time together in God’s presence. While I was there, I started having conversations with other women. Once I said I was writing a book, I was surprised at the number of ladies interested. I left the retreat with the names of a few women who had shown an interest. Some of those ladies are in this book. I hadn’t known them before this, just as I hadn’t known Mulu, but they shared their stories with me.

The incident that sealed the deal and afforded me my last confirmation after I had committed to God to write this book occurred when I was seeking a location for our first writers’ workshop. My dear friend Nancy was using a building called the Barn to conduct Bible studies. She offered to connect me with the owners. The owner and I finally connected, but the conversation was difficult because he had a bad cough. He said it was okay for me to use the Barn, but he insisted on telling me a story of a miracle that had happened a few years back. I offered to pray for him, and we could discuss it another time, but he insisted on telling me then. I listened. He told me about a young lady who had come to the Barn for a youth event her daughters were attending. She had been in a bad car accident and was having severe back pain and other physical problems. He said that the young man conducting the ministry for the event prayed for her, and God healed her back. Not only that, he said she had been shot twice in the face and had lost eyesight in one eye, and God restored her vision. When he said that, all I could think about was how I would love to meet this miracle, and it would be great to have this testimony in the book.

It was Friday, and I needed to get home to prepare to attend a church life group meeting later that evening. I offered to pray for him, he accepted, and we prayed and hung up. I was elated for the person whom God had blessed with the miracle of healings. That night, my daughter, her sons, and I went to the meeting and had a great deal of fun. We left refreshed after meeting so many friendly people. On Monday morning, I received a call from the life group hostess, Gloria, informing me that a young lady at the meeting wanted to meet me because she heard I was writing a book. We chatted, and I asked her to have the young lady call me. I thought, Wow, God, You are making this happen. Thank You!

Within a few days, the young lady called me. We talked small talk for a while, and she reminded me who she was at the meeting. I remembered her, her daughter, and her husband. Finally, I said, just as I had to Mulu, What is your story?

She said, I was shot in the face twice!

I did everything I could to keep from actually throwing the phone; I was speechless! It couldn’t be true—no way. I was in the room with the miracle on the same evening the man had told me about the miracle, and now the miracle was calling me. She told me it would be an honor to share her story in the book, and my heart leaped with joy. God didn’t have to do anything else to confirm the book; but He opened up the heavens.

We had our official writers’ workshop at the Barn. I didn’t have twenty-one women at the time, but I was over halfway there. Each lady introduced herself and told a portion of her story. We all marveled at the tidbits of information—a sneak preview into each lady’s story. It was exciting, although many, if not all, were painful stories. The young lady whose vision God had restored shared her story, and we continued to the next person until the last person had shared. Then the miracle lady said she felt she needed to share more vital information with us. She said it was at this very place, the Barn, where she received the healing of her back and vision. And that wasn’t all. She told us of how the young minister prayed over her for a long time, and during the prayer, he said to her that God said she would be back at the Barn, years from that date, and she would be writing a book with many women. Again, I felt the need to throw something; I couldn’t take the way God was blowing my mind and confirming himself. I was already convinced and committed; now, I was fully persuaded.

Since our first meet and greet on January 24, 2018, it has been a journey. Many of the ladies who started with us were unable to finish for various personal reasons, but having their initial interest blessed me. Once I was convinced this was God’s project, I never worried about the contributors; God was responsible for the twenty-one women, and He would find His replacements. We have had incidents where the enemy, satan, has sought to stop us, but to no avail. He may hinder us, but I will not stop because my commitment is to God, not myself. I have come to love more profoundly and to accept my sisters without a second opinion. We have cried together, prayed together, and hoped together. We celebrate each other for the boldness, mercy, and grace God has granted them to tell their story. And their stories are relatable because their struggles were real. They tell their stories because they are free—free enough to give the details and be transparent—and why? Because they want you to be free!

I fought within myself to complete this book and publish it in 2019 and then 2020, the year of COVID-19, and as you can see, that didn’t happen. As I was beginning to feel a little defeated, slothful, distressed, and a few other words, God caused me to pause. He said it was me who wanted 2019 and 2020; it was always His will that this book titled 21 would be published in 2021. The power of a pause!

Enjoy this book but do more. Whatever healing you may need, receive it from God as you read the pages of each story. Twenty-one relatable women, twenty-one stories, and twenty-one miracles—each gets one, or maybe two or more, and you can get yours!

My Journey as a Refugee

by Mulu Afework

Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life. You stretch out your hand against the anger of my foes; with your right hand, you save me. (Psalms 138:7 NIV)

Why Do People Leave Their Homeland and Choose to Be Strangers in a Strange Land?

All around the world, large numbers of people leave behind their language, belief system, family, friends, and everything representing their culture and take major (sometimes unknown) risks to migrate to another country. Many are forced from their homes to become refugees because of political and religious persecution or ethnic genocides. Some flee from organized crime or human rights violations to seek a safer place, especially for their children, and a better living standard for their family as a whole. Here is my story.

Why I Left My Homeland at Age Sixteen and Became a Refugee

I was born in a small city located in the eastern part of Ethiopia. I had the privilege to be raised by a loving grandmother, my mom’s mother. My grandmother owned a large plot of land, and there were multiple small, two-bedroom houses on the property that she rented to the locals, family members, and friends. She raised me to recognize and accept everyone around me as a relative, and uncle or auntie, or a friend. It was and still is quite common for many Ethiopian families and friends to live close to one another, so as you can imagine, everyone was like family.

I have the fondest memories of how some of the people in the compound loved me and treated me as their little girl. I would start my day with breakfast at my home. I would have lunch next door. And we ate dinner at whatever house all of us children just happened to be playing near at dinner time. That was and still is one of the many parts of the Ethiopian culture I love the most.

I remember my life as a young Ethiopian girl being remarkably comfortable and straightforward within the community that surrounded me. We had plenty to eat, and we could easily buy fresh meat, vegetables, fruits, and grains from the local market. Food was affordable, even for those considered underserved; here in America, we call them the poor. The government did not provide social services; therefore, it was typical for the community to help our poor families and friends. Unbeknownst to me, my pleasant childhood life in Ethiopia was about to turn into chaos, and fear like never before was about to be birthed in our country, sending us all into a panic.

During the early 1970s, tension among different economic classes and ethnic groups ignited in our country. At that time, we also learned about severe droughts that affected the northern part of Ethiopia. The drought greatly impacted those identified as peasants whose life depended on farming. The drought spread throughout parts of Ethiopia and caused major hunger crises. As millions faced starvation, the whole country grew restless. Antigovernment militants blamed the emperor at the time, Haile Selassie, and his administration for the trouble in the land.

Haile Selassie was the emperor of Ethiopia from 1930 to 1974; as you can imagine, it was a well-established system for decades. The Ethiopian emperor traced his dynasty back to Menilek, the first emperor of Ethiopia. The people believed that he was a Hebrew descendant who started the line of the Solomonic dynasty. You will find Ethiopia mentioned forty-four times in the Bible in the Old Testament. Many believe that one of the famous figures in the Bible, the Queen of Sheba, also known as Makeda by Ethiopians, was Ethiopian. They believe that upon her visit with King Solomon, their union produced a son named Menilek, thereby creating Jewish heirs among the Ethiopians. The Ethiopian Jews (Falashasak, aka Beta-Israel) link their ancestry settlement to the northern part of Ethiopia. Many of them migrated back to Israel between 1980 and 1992.

I remember when a Marxist-led military group overthrew Emperor Haile Selassie, who had reigned for over forty years. In 1974 the military dictator took over the country and turned it into a communist nation. The talk amongst the community was that during the takeover, they placed Emperor Haile Selassie under house arrest, and strangely, he died eleven months later. Between 1976 and 1978, the new Marxist government began rounding up and killing those suspected of being members of the opposing groups or resisting the change. Bodies were dumped in the street, mostly college students, but also children as young as thirteen years old, youths in general, government workers, and intellectuals. They sought to destroy anyone and everyone who appeared to be a possible threat to the new military regime. This era is known as the Red Terror. The new government killed approximately five hundred thousand of the country’s citizens. To further drive the opposing groups from urban centers, the new government sent all high school, college, and university students and teachers who survived the chaos to rural areas for six months of service called Zemecha. Technically, I was a tenth-grade student, but I was recruited to attend a vocational school and sent to another province.

I have experienced significant moments, occurrences, and experiences in my life, and I call them Wonders of My Wilderness.

I Was Given a Letter, a Pass

At age sixteen, they sent me to the remotest part of the country to work with students from different parts of the province to help locals, and I am still unsure what help we were providing. After serving almost four months, I was called into the office by one of the teachers, and he handed me a pass, in the form of a letter, allowing me to go home to visit my family.

I did not ask for this privilege but was happy to receive it. I often ask why I was given a pass by a teacher I barely knew. But on that day, he was my hero. I would see him again because I had to return to complete my time in service.

At that time, security was tight because the government had declared martial law, and students could not freely travel. They had to be in service (Zemecha), remain in school, or be given a pass. If caught traveling, they would go to jail and ultimately could lose their life. As fate would have it, I was caught at a bus stop while boarding my next bus to go home. A man in a military uniform started questioning me, and I showed him my pass, but he didn’t care about it and ordered me to follow him. He took me to a hotel next to the bus stop, got a room, and ordered me to stay put. He told the hotel clerk to watch me until he returned within an hour or so. Ten minutes later, I ran out of that hotel as fast and discreetly as I could and mingled with the downtown crowd. I was familiar with the area. The campus I had attended for a two-year program was near downtown and only a few miles from the bus station. I knew the director and his wife, who lived on campus. The wife was from my hometown and would invite me over for tea. We had enjoyed a cup of tea together just before I was rounded up like the other youths and sent to serve for six months for Zemecha. I went to see her, and she was surprised to see me. She told me to stay at her house until she could arrange transportation home for me. She asked her husband to drive me to the next town to catch the overnight train home. I found safety on this campus with a lady who had befriended me months earlier. I knew the military man did not have any good plans for me.

Finally, I made it home, and I was incredibly happy to see my family, especially my grandmother. Soon afterward, a few days or more, people started talking about me, asking why and how I was allowed to come home without completing the service. They thought it could only happen if I had a connection with the new government. A conspiracy theory started in which I was suspected of being a spy for the new government. My friends, whom I grew up with, believed it. Sadly, even my half-brother began to act differently around me. I found out that the local police were questioning my status as well. I needed to leave town before the government or the opposing group killed me; I could even die at the hands of my brother.

My Mother Had a Dream

As a result of this threat to my life, I knew I had to run away as fast as possible. I decided to visit my mother, who lived about 150 miles away from my hometown. My grandmother had raised me, and I had little relationship with my biological mother. Only a few hours after I arrived, a police officer came to talk to my mom, asking her why I was not at school or providing service. She told them that I was tired and sleeping, and I would answer them the next day. When I heard what happened, I started planning my next escape. I knew I needed to leave this town the following day before the police returned.

The first problem I encountered was when my mother decided not to go to work early as she did every morning. My mother was a merchant; she owned several businesses, so she had to go to the market to make sure she opened her shops on time. She told me she’d had a dream about me. In the dream, she found out that I ran away, and she went out to look for me, calling out my name on a very dense and bushy road with high mountains left and right. Nervously, I cracked a smile and said to her, That is crazy; I don’t even know this town very well. My mother finally left the house around ten that morning. I immediately grabbed some of my clothes, put them in a bag, and placed the bag into the trash can to retrieve them later. I acted as though I was taking out the trash, but I encountered problem number two. My mom had a maid, and she did everything for her, which proved to be a problem. She insisted that it was her duty to take out the trash and began to pull the garbage bag out of my hands. I knew if she saw my clothes in the garbage, I was doomed, so I pushed her as hard as I could. She finally stopped pursuing me, and once she was out of sight, I grabbed my bags from the garbage and left on my journey to the unknown.

A Girl on a Woman’s Journey

My mother’s hometown in Ethiopia was small, and I could see the border while standing in the backyard. A few civilians lived there, but it was made up mostly of the military and police. They lived at the top of the hill and could see everything, keenly watching the border. I set my eyes on that border, but I had to make a stop first. There was an old church on a hilltop not far from my mom’s house, and there I planned to change my clothing so I wouldn’t look conspicuous but more like the people I was going to meet soon—Somalians!

I started walking, one step in front of the other. I could hear my heart pounding loudly, and it felt as though it would jump out of my chest. I was afraid, but the fear of staying and facing dire consequences was greater than the fear of at least attempting to escape and save my life. So I walked, and I kept walking. I walked up to the church, and thankfully, the door was unlocked, and I acted as though I had an open invitation. I walked in and changed my clothing—yes, right there in the sanctuary. After I finished dressing up somewhat like the local Somalis, I knelt and asked God and all the saints for protection for the rest of my journey. I had never read the Bible, and I knew nothing about this God of the Bible, but now I beseeched His help. I had gone to church, but I am afraid that was all I had done. Ethiopia was Christian based, and the church was our primary place of worship. We received everything from within the church: our political systems and process, culture, and teaching flowed into our social lives. That was the case until Haile Selassie was no longer the emperor; after that, everything had changed. However, Somalia, located on the horn of Africa, has Islam as its primary religion. I walked toward Somalia.

On that day, I surrendered my overwhelming anxious emotions to Him that He might lead me in the right direction. I was about to embark upon a journey into strange territory, and everything was an unknown to me; this was frightening. And I was asking God, whom I was not intimate with, to lead me. I walked for hours, at least seven hours in the heat. I asked myself, Why am I still walking? After all, I could see the border from my mom’s house just as I could see the church on the hill. It cannot be that far from the house—or so I thought. It is deceiving how something may seem close only because you can see it, when in reality it is farther than you imagine. But I had to begin my venture to find this out. The journey would teach me more than I wanted to learn. The journey was long, with few travelers. The few I saw looked at me as if they were trying to figure out who I was. I felt nervous because the Somalians hated the Ethiopians because of years of border contention. And now I, the Ethiopian, was venturing into my enemy country seeking refuge!

A Stranger’s Sandals

It was getting late, the sun was setting, and I was still in the wilderness. Creatures come out at night, you know, and as I was getting more acquainted with God, I hoped that He would calm my fears again. Far away in the distance, I could see lights, and there appeared to be three different towns relatively close to each other. I remembered hearing in conversations in my homeland that the border had small cities with military bases. I guessed that was what I was seeing. It was getting darker, and I had no idea which light was for the right city—a safe, accepting city. I was in a quandary, and as I began to walk toward one of the city lights, I started panicking and crying, not knowing where I was going or what was going to happen to me. Suddenly, I saw a man riding a donkey. He stopped, and a conversation ensued. I knew a few words in Somalian, and I managed to tell him I was a student and needed to leave the country. I asked him if he could give me his sandals because my walking shoes had blistered my feet. Can you believe it? He gave me his sandals and then walked me to the right town, a safe city, and placed me in the proper official’s hands.

At the point of a major decision, this unknown man riding on a donkey became my hero, and I would never see him again.

The Unusual Favor

Although it was highly unusual for an Ethiopian citizen to be allowed into Somalia, they welcomed me and placed me in a nice hotel. On the third day, they transported me to another city. I stayed in that city for three months. They did not know what to do with me and transported me to the capital city. At that time, Ethiopia was at war with Somalia and the Eretria Liberation Party. A few Eritreans had fled to Somalia. The leader of the Liberation Party was passing through and heard about my story. He petitioned the Somali officials to meet me. After he met me, he immediately instructed his officials to place me with a family. Many prosperous Eritreans were taken to Somalia by Italians as soldiers during the era of the Scramble for Africa. It was also an unusual request for an Eritrean family to house an Ethiopian girl when they knew nothing about me. Soon after, I met a girl about my age, and she decided to take me home with her. She happened to be the daughter of one of the wealthiest Eritrean-Somalian families in Somalia. Her parents were on vacation at the time, but she told them about me over the phone.

After five months of living comfortably with this family, they offered to pay for me to go anywhere I desired to pursue an education or seek out employment. I decided to work, and they suggested I go to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. I flew to Jeddah, and my adopted family arranged for another family member to pick me up at the airport and allow me to stay with them until I found employment. Unfortunately, due to miscommunication, no one showed up at the airport. The airline captain found it in his good grace to take me to his home. Overnight, he desperately tried to convince me that I could work as a hostess on his plane and earn good money, and he would arrange for me to have a nice place to live. By this time, I was immune to receiving proposals, and when he placed his proposal on the table, I wasn’t surprised. I remember responding with a smile and never whispered a word. In my heart, I was saying, No, sir, but thank you. I knew the motive behind every proposal, and it wasn’t going to be a good outcome for me. I wondered in my mind what I would do if the family didn’t show up to get me. I could feel my heart begin to beat faster, and panic was rising within me.

Someone Who Speaks my Language

Thank God, the family showed up the next day in the late afternoon and took me to their home. They welcomed me with open arms. The husband and wife showed me to my room, and I felt comfortable in my new surroundings. I immediately asked if I could shower and clean up. They understood, and I headed straight for the shower. While in the bathroom, I could distinctly hear another voice. Feeling refreshed with clean clothes, I noticed a handsome Eritrean man as I entered the living room area. I later learned that he had grown up in the capital city of Ethiopia, Addis Ababa. Here’s a girl from your country, the couple said to him.

We immediately clicked; after all, he was handsome, and he spoke my language. We had a friendly conversation. He agreed to come the next day to give me a tour of the city. After that, we spent each day together. It was refreshing to be with someone who was from my culture and appreciated me.

The family was so gracious to me, and I felt horrible because I couldn’t financially contribute to the household. I was vigorously seeking employment, but nothing came my way. The inability to contribute started to make me feel uncomfortable, and I wanted to leave because I did not want to be a burden. I told my new male friend about how I was feeling, and he promised to find me a job—and he did.

Over time, my friend and I took our relationship to another level, and we got married and had two children. I loved the idea of having a family, but I did not plan to be a stay-at-home mom nor to deal with some of the treatment I was receiving. I had the ambition to pursue my education and be independent in every sense of the word. I felt trapped, confined, and held against my will. I hated my life but loved my children, and I kept pressing and praying for a better life. The status of my children and me in Saudi Arabia was that of diasporas from Ethiopia; however, I was there with a work visa and was given other papers by Somalia’s government that allowed me to travel.

Leaving Saudi Arabia to start a new life terrified me, but I knew that I needed to move forward once again to have a better experience. I had no means or resources to get out of the country, but I was always planning and searching for any possibility that would come my way.

The Overheard Conversation

One day, my husband suggested we take a family vacation to Italy. He had extended family and friends who lived in all the major cities. I was excited because I loved that country. I heard many things about Italy in my Ethiopian history class, and I wanted to explore it. We packed for a month’s vacation and decided to stay in Rome before visiting the rest of the cities. We rented a hotel close to restaurants and cafés for convenience with the children.

On the third day of our travel, we decided to tour Rome. After enjoying our day, we stopped to relax and have dinner at a beautiful café. A group of Ethiopian youngsters sat at the table next to us. We didn’t acknowledge each other even though, in our culture, it is customary to greet one another immediately. But they were too busy laughing and having a good time. They spoke Italian and Ethiopian. I remember thinking about how they looked like those beautiful Ethiopian