Spoken Word – Ukraine
Christina Gamota’s Story
My name is Christina Stefania (Dawydowycz) Gamota and I am a refugee. I was born in Lisko – Western Ukraine, which is now part of Poland, on May 16, 1941 to Nestor & Helena Dawydowycz both born during the time of the Austrian -Hungarian Empire. I do not remember life in my birth country, so, I guess you could say my story starts on May 1944, when I was 3 years old when my parents immigrated to Obdach, Austria to escape the Soviet invasion.
Since my parents were Austrian citizens, they had certain privileges. We had guaranteed housing and my father, a veterinarian, was able to work in his profession.
But we were immigrants; we were not born in Austria. So, when the Soviets invaded Austria, we lost everything….became homeless…became refugees. My parents never shared their feeling about this, but I imagine their disappointment and humiliation was intense (who wouldn’t be upon realizing they are a second-class citizen?)
So, we were uprooted… sent to live in barracks in Innsbruck in a single room with no bathroom and little privacy. Because there was no safe playground, I played in a nearby cemetery and made-up games using sticks, strings and pebbles. Sometimes I would see people being buried.
At age 5, I went to school and learned to speak German. The school was run by Catholic nuns who would hit you with wooden pointers and make you wear a dunce hat.
In 1948 we realized the heartbreaking truth: We could never return home. Because my parents were “Intelligentsia” who also had a long line of priests and nuns in their families, this was not acceptable to the Bolsheviks. Besides my father was considered a Nazi supporter because he provided horses for the German soldiers. It was not his choice but, to the Bolsheviks, it was a good enough excuse to send him and the family to Siberia or put him to death.
From Austria, we moved to France, Switzerland and back to France. We lived out of our luggage. By the end of 1948, a decision was made to immigrate to South America – Argentina. Argentina because my father’s specialty was large animals.
I was 7 when we arrived in Buenos Aires… and, I loved everything about it! The people were so hospitable and kind (we were not used to that). My parents were very happy in this new country. We all learned to speak Spanish. Finally, we had found a home!
But, after 10 years, Argentina came into political turmoil… and my parents, growing concern for our safety, decided to try to immigrate to the U.S. where they had family.
Duke University and the Midwest Veterinary Association sponsored our coming to America, because of bureaucracy and paperwork–– it was 2 years before we could leave.
Eventually, we made it to Minneapolis where we were greeted by family. That was a very cold December and I was 17.
We lived with my father’s older brother and his family for a year. Saved money and rented an apartment. Then, my parents bought a house.
My parents did not participate in the American community life. Their social life was connected to the Ukrainian Community and not to America! I think, after years of moving and not feeling safe or understood it felt good for them to be with people who spoke their language and could relate to their culture.
They felt strongly that we should learn the language of this new country, American history, culture and its traditions… Thanksgiving was adopted and celebrated with all the trimmings as well as many other holidays
If I could sum up my major feelings about the refugee experience, I would want US citizens to know this…:
It never leaves you. No matter how successful you are, you can never erase the feeling of being erased…of being helpless…of being made a refugee. Of being treated like you don’t matter. Refugees know how costly freedom is. That it will make demands of your family. Demand you leave those you love behind. That you don’t tell them you are going because, if they know, they could be killed. Sometimes, and I know this will sound very privileged, but like some here tonight, I had a nanny. I was much closer to her than I ever have been to my mother (this is not unusual in families that have means). I loved her very much and can remember missing her and praying for her every night. To this day I get sad when I think of her. I mean, our privileges didn’t protect us from the effects of war, so, I can only imagine what it was like for her. No, the feeling never leaves you…
Yes, freedom is expensive and precious and needs to be protected.
So, do not judge us by how we look or speak or what religion we belong to. Take time to know us and see what is inside our hearts.
And to my fellow refugees I say:
You will have to start over and reinvent yourself. You cannot look back. You need to have hope. You need to believe in yourself. And you must do two things at the same time: Protect your identity, your mother tongue, your values and traditions, and learn new values, new languages, and new traditions to fit in your new country.
It will be difficult but you can do it! My husband, George and I did it and so did many of our Ukrainian friends. Every weekend we drove our children to Ukrainian schools, church and summer camp. And now, our children are bilingual and helped the Ukrainian Government rebuild after the collapse of the Soviet Union.
When the Russians invaded Ukraine again, our family, our children got involved in helping our birth country. Our oldest grandson is coming home after spending a year in Ukraine helping Ukrainians at the Catholic University of Ukraine teaching English as a second language. He is 2nd generation born in this country.
We are all proud to be of Ukrainian descent and grateful to be American Citizens.