The lights flickered twice before abruptly going out, bathing the house in darkness. Moments later, sirens began to wail outside and the glass inside the window frames began to rattle as a deep rumbling approached rapidly overhead.

“Get down! Under the table with your sister, now!”

Upon hearing his mother’s raised voice from across the house, the little boy grabbed his younger sister and dove under the table. The table was closer now, in the hallway just outside their shared bedroom. It used to be in the other room, but his mother had dragged it closer a few days earlier. She said it would be quicker to get to this way.

The boy crouched beside his sister with excitement, but in the back of his mind he wondered why his mother’s voice sounded so fearful. It was just a game; they were playing hide and seek. He remembered being scared when they first started playing a few days ago, but by now he was used to it.

As soon as the rumbling stopped and the scream of the sirens faded, he heard footsteps racing towards them, followed by his mother’s anxious face as she knelt down and pulled them both into an embrace.

His little sister was crying now, clinging to their mother. “Mama, why are they doing this to us?”

The boy’s face scrunched up in confusion. “What are you talking about? It’s just a game.” His voice started to shake with uncertainty as he looked first to his mother and then up to his father for reassurance. “Right?”

It was 1971 in Karachi, Pakistan, and the region was several days into the conflict that would later become known as the Indo-Pakistani War. The armies of Western Pakistan (modern-day Pakistan) and India were fighting over Eastern Pakistan’s (modern-day Bangladesh) bid for independence. Tensions between the recently partitioned countries had been rising for years and by now had devolved into a maelstrom where the roar of low-flying plane engines, the thunder of bombs crashing, the blackened windowpanes, and the shrill of sirens had become familiar—the telltale symptoms of war.

The little boy was my father, just five years old at the time and charged with taking care of his three-year-old sister. Although things had been getting worse for some time, my grandparents were reluctant to leave the life they had built in Karachi—my grandmother was a teacher, while my grandfather was a dean at a local college and a respected concert pianist. But somewhere between the increasingly frequent bouts of blackouts and bombings, they decided it was time to leave.  

Luckily my great-aunt Rose had already immigrated to West Virginia and was able to file a family-based petition for United States visas on behalf of my grandparents. Things happened quickly then as they prepared to pack up their lives and move half a world away. My grandfather applied for many teaching jobs and was able to secure a few interviews at schools in Los Angeles, although none offered a definite promise of employment. My grandparents had gathered their savings—a modest six thousand dollars—and completed all the necessary paperwork. Everything was in order but for one decisive snag—my grandfather’s aunt, Aunty Lu, who had been a mother to him since he was a boy, did not qualify for a visa because she did not fall into an existing preference category for family-based petitions. This was a dealbreaker, as they refused to leave her behind.

My grandparents tried repeatedly over the next few years to get Aunty Lu a visa, all to no avail until a serendipitous meeting that set their immigration story in motion. My grandfather was invited to play the Grieg Piano Concerto at the United States Consulate and received a standing ovation at the end of his performance led by one man in particular—who happened to be the Consul General. He was a pianist himself and had one question for my grandfather—what was he still doing in Karachi with such amazing talent? Upon hearing the reason, within one week, my grandparents received a letter from the Consulate granting Aunty Lu a visa.

But they did not leave Pakistan without one last stroke of good fortune. At their farewell gathering on the eve of their departure, they happened to meet Mr. Cooper, a Seventh Day Adventist in charge of an Adventist hospital in Los Angeles, who offered to help them upon their arrival in the city. With that, they were on their way. 

On May 9, 1975, with their two children and aunt in tow, my grandparents flew first to England, then across the pond to Virginia, and finally via Greyhound bus to the opposite coast, sleeping on the bus throughout the journey to save money. True to his word, Mr. Cooper met them at the bus stop in Downtown Los Angeles and provided temporary housing at the nurse’s dorm at the hospital. During that time, my grandparents visited the campus chapel where they met a pastor who graciously offered them the use of his home (and all the food in his pantry and kitchen) while he was out of the country.

Although seemingly inconsequential in isolation, these random acts of kindness from strangers afforded my grandparents the extra inch of support they needed to ultimately find their legs in unchartered territory. Together, the intervention of these individuals in my family’s path helped make their American dream a reality.

I am a first-generation immigrant. I was born and raised in the suburbs of Los Angeles, learned how to drive on the traffic-clogged streets of the San Fernando Valley, attended predominantly white Catholic schools, and graduated from UCLA. I have never heard the echo of bombs crashing in the distance, nor have I had to crouch under a table for anything other than a school earthquake drill. But thanks to the stories shared over home-cooked meals at my grandparents’ house, I am regularly reminded to be grateful that I do not live with those fears. 

But while I recognize the happy ending to my grandparents’ immigration story, I grapple with the fact that a handful of coincidences determined its trajectory. My family’s story is the exception—the rule is that most hopeful immigrants do not happen to meet the right people who open the door to a better life in America. It should not be as difficult as it is for a family living in a region rife with war to move to a safer place, nor should the price tag be so high.

Every immigrant family has a tale to tell, and it is more likely than not that those stories—like my grandparents’—are riddled with instances of charity and luck. But hearing these stories only makes me wonder about the untold tales, the families who did not get the extra inch of help they needed to make their dream a reality.

My family’s story has many lessons. First, amid the escalating tensions in Pakistan, when ducking for cover was far too common an occurrence, the fact that my grandfather’s Aunty Lu was not “immediate family” should not have prevented them from leaving a dangerous environment. Although my grandparents were Catholics living in a predominantly Muslim region, they did not directly experience persecution or discrimination as a result of their religious beliefs and most likely would not have qualified for refugee status. Nevertheless, the simple fact of fearing for your life should be sufficient justification.

Further, a tale such as mine demonstrates all too well the domino effect of strife abroad on immigration patterns at home. As a leader in a global community, the United States must have a multi-pronged immigration system that is partly targeted at effective foreign aid and stabilization of areas at risk of sliding into humanitarian crises. Rather than simply writing a check that goes to corrupt foreign leaders, the United States should pursue on-the-ground provision of resources and public services to communities in need, supply aid that is reflective of community and cultural needs to ensure effective use, and develop comprehensive global climate change policy.

Another lesson lies in the crucial need for community assistance immediately upon immigration. Although hopeful immigrants must prove that they will not become a public charge before qualifying for a visa, most immigrant families—especially those fleeing war-torn countries—do not have the resources to land on their feet on Day One. This emphasizes the need for government programs to provide basic necessities such as room and board for a limited period of time while new immigrants search for employment and housing. While some nonprofit organizations seek to provide integration assistance, federal, state, and local governments must do more in this area to ensure that these families get the help they need.

Further, the government should establish immigration employment programs that aim to match immigrants with employment opportunities that align with their education, qualifications, and ability. Both of my grandparents arrived in America with higher education degrees and respectable professional careers—my grandmother held a Master’s in literature and psychology, while my grandfather earned a Master’s in mathematics. Yet upon arrival in California, my grandmother was compelled to accept a housekeeping position so that she could at least earn an income—a job she held until Mr. Cooper came through again with a promotion to an office position. Unfortunately, this disparity is the norm. Studies show that immigrants receive an entry wage approximately 41 to 44 percent lower than what U.S. citizens receive, and it takes on average about two decades in the host country to close this wage gap. Government programs can speed up this assimilation process and ensure that immigrants do not have to sacrifice years of education and work experience in their country of origin in exchange for a future in the United States.

An immigration system that promises success to the lucky few is a system built on shaky ground. While I take great pride in my family’s history, culture, and immigration story, I know that my future is brighter in part because of fortuitous events that opened the many doors blocking my grandparents’ journey to this country. As the descendant of immigrants who watched the home they loved deteriorate into violence and danger, I empathize with families around the world who feel the same urge to flee. Something as uncontrollable as the country and circumstances you happened to be born into should not determine the life that you lead. I believe my family’s experience, although successful, demonstrates many areas for reform in the United States immigration system, including revising the grounds for family-based visa petitions, instituting effective foreign aid policies, and implementing local immigrant integration and employment matching programs. There is plenty of room for improvement and so many ways for us to get to work.