My grandfather, Michael, was born in 1929 during the USSR in modern day Belarus. He was born into a poor working class family. Socialism was the law of the land and there was almost no chance of him finding a way out of poverty, all were equal but in this case all were equally poor. In 1941, Nazi Germany made its way to his town, capturing him, his parents, and his 5 siblings (3 brothers and 2 sisters). At the time of his capture my grandfather was 11, his younger siblings were all under 5 years old and his oldest sibling was his 17 year old sister named Lena. Each night, the guards made the rounds choosing people from the population to be shot and killed, trying to find the Jews within the town. His family was safe until one night, with no explanation, his oldest sister Lena was taken. She was ripped away from the family and never seen again. She was likely taken out into the plains and shot by the Nazis, killed at the age of 17. He and his family were transported and put to work in a concentration camp in a forest outside of a small city in Russia called Voronezh. He found it impossible to go on with his life without his older sister but during his time at the camp my grandfather made a vow that his sister’s death would not be forgotten. In 1943, the family was saved by the soviet army, at that time called the Red Army. Having gone through one of the most traumatic experiences imaginable he surprisingly had the motivation to make something of himself, to work hard and make his family proud. During the 1950s, he found his way in Kazakhstan, a largely empty country where the USSR encouraged volunteers to help create a thriving city. Here he successfully worked as a merchant selling everything and anything to anyone, until he had enough money to move to Ukraine to join the rest of his family. There in Ukraine his family built two beautiful homes. One was a wonderful home for him and his family while the other had a special purpose. The second home was named after his oldest sister Lena who was killed by the Nazis. The home was used as a shelter for anyone they thought could use it. Over the next 15 years, the house saw hundreds of faces; the needy, the sick, the prosecuted, all were taken care until they were back on their feet and ready to continue with their lives. Although my grandfather ended up moving to America, the house was still run by his siblings. Now it has turned into a farm where each weekend my cousins teach free courses in Law and Language. I shared this story today because I think it’s an excellent example of how hate can be turned into love, how no matter how bad life gets there is a purpose for everyone on this earth.