When my grandmother first immigrated to the United States, she brought with her a clipping of the New Nation newspaper that her late father had been the chief editor for. This newspaper was one of the first English printing presses in the newly independent Bangladesh; my Great-grandfather had spent much of his journalistic career at this printing press, ensuring that honest and reliable journalism was readily available at times of uncertainty for the new Bengali republic. He'd been a man possessed of great talent and intellect; orphaned at just four years old with little prospects to his name, he'd climbed his own way to higher education and eventually, chief editor. He was an acclaimed journalist, most chiefly unafraid to share his progressive and liberal values in service of his country. My grandmother had pledged herself to public service in honor of him, and had served consecutive terms in her local district with the same democratic and community values that he'd instilled in her as a child. This one newspaper clipping is just a small piece of the tremendous life that my Great-Grandfather had led, but it is a reminder of all that he had accomplished and all that he had taught to his children, in good faith and prosperity, who taught it to their children, who taught it to me. At the very bottom of the newspaper, you can read his name: Motahar Hossain Siddiqui. It's not a name I'm personally familiar with, a fact that I sincerely regret, but it's a name I aspire to remember and uphold in my own life. 

– ZM

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant