This is a story that I would like to take up a couple posts on.
This story is about my hero, my father. My father never told me his journey about how/ why he came to America. He never told me, until two weeks before I left for my freshman year of college.
Why he picked this time to tell me? I don’t know. But he did and I am glad.
My father and I always get in deep conversations when he comes home from work that will go on for hours and hours into the night. We would talk about politics, religion, the current world, anything and everything in-between.
This night was special. This is the night that I started to look at my father in a different light, where he just wasn’t my dad, but my hero.
He started at the very beginning where he was just a boy, not more than 17. He was small and frail and wasn’t in college (not most northern village boys attended college). But he was considered for the Iraqi army and was drafted not much after his birthday.
He told me that for months they would just dig holes in what seemed like 1,000 degree weather and there only source of water would be from there snack break; watermelon.
He also told me he was training to be one the brave men on the front line…this right fact shocked me.
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