
My husband is a refugee. A refugee whose family sought political asylum in the United States in the 1980’s in the face of the stuff of nightmares. The details are personal, but the bottom line is this: my husband’s life, and the lives of his family were in imminent danger; fleeing the country was the only option. They had two choices: America or Libya. They chose America, and the difference in that choice turned out to be everything. It’s interesting,…
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