My voyage to the States is a common story for many Vietnamese people. It's a tale that has been told and retold, and romanticized in plays and movies, such as Heaven and Earth. If you've ever met a Viet person, you might know that appreciation and education are harped upon as a familiar theme amongst family values. In fact, I believe that most families immigrating from war-torn countries place these values at the top. Whenever a child or teenager acted out of line, or was becoming "too Americanized" as our parents used to say, they would promptly remind us of the hardships they had to endure to give us the life of freedom. And deservedly so. It was a tough way of life, one that was and is still a good reminder of why it is a privilege to be here in the US. After the war, from 1975 until the mid 1980's tales of heartbreak and suffering were so common, it's difficult not to become numb to its tragedy.
First, there was the fall of Saigon in 1975. Families who were thought to be supporters of South Vietnam, or anti-communist, were jailed or executed. Businessmen, scholars, and Catholics all shared this same fate as the communist government quickly established their rule. Those who fled faced a different kind of hardship. Families who were fortunate enough to be wealthy quickly became unfortunate, and were forced to abandon their homes and flee with what little they could carry. With enough luck, they were able to secure a passport or visa, allowing them to be the first ones out.
A much different fate awaited the have-nots They took part in a lottery over the next decade, using all of their resources to smuggle as much of their family as possible to freedom. Many times, families could only afford to send one person, and they would send one of the kids. This chosen one would be pulled aside by their parents and be told about his or her lottery winnings. There was an opportunity to get them out of the country and start a new and better life, but that they may not see their parents or siblings again for a long time, possibly forever. Telling their siblings goodbye was forbidden, for fear of the plot being accidentally uncovered. They would start their journey as a part of a group called the Boat People.
Depending on whose story you listen to, the hardships range from awful to gut-wrenchingly horrendous. Avoiding suffering was a constant task. For three hot and humid days on the Mekong Delta, the passengers would hide and sit still, with little or no room to stand or lay down. Food and water were scarce, as was oxygen in some cases. In one story I heard, there was a hiding area built beneath the surface of a 35 feet boat, and sixty-eight passengers took turns one by one coming up for fresh air. Many fainted constantly from focusing on a task that we do unconsciously. In such tight quarters, one can only imagine the putrid smell of sweat, urine, and feces that accumulated.
Managing to escape through the delta was just one check mark on the to-do list. More dangers loomed on every vessel traveling towards freedom. Once in the South China Sea, the boats were rocked by Mother Nature's violent storms, and it became an ongoing battle for the passengers, bailing out water and throwing what little they owned overboard to save themselves from drowning. Sometimes passengers were lost, sometimes whole boats were swallowed up. In the silver lining at least there was the consolation of rain to replenish the dwindling supply of drinking water. The Thai pirates who wandered the sea were less giving. They often surrounded the weary travellers, looted each person at knife point, forced the men overboard to leave the women and children unprotected, and raped their victims, sometimes for hours as the children watched helplessly. For the extremely ill-fated, their boats were attacked multiple times, and looted down to the point where they were laughed at by their attackers for their destitution.
With millions of boat people wandering the sea, refugee camps were set up on islands in Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines to receive the homeless hoarde. There they joined the others and waited, living in squalor and slight lawlessness, yet hopeful of the chance that they would be sponsored by someone in a non-communist country. Of all the people who made it safely, I was the ultimate lottery winner. I had the most comfortable accomodations, as I was still tucked away in my mother's womb during the boat ride to Indonesia's Pulau Gulang. I remember her stories of going without food for three days, worrying and hoping that I would make it. Perhaps that explains my love of food. She never told me if she was a victim of rape, and I never knew enough about it at the time to ask. What I do know is that I was a stubborn eight pound baby who had to be delivered via C-section. I was the first in my family to be born outside of Vietnam, right into refugee status. I had no birth certificate or citizenship, but of all the people who shared the fate of the Boat People, I was given the best chances for success and happiness. After a twelve month stay on the island, we were sponsored to America, where we lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma for a short time before moving to California. I like to imagine us as a small happy family for those first few years, before rage and jealousy took over my dad and caused him to break us apart.
Managing to escape through the delta was just one check mark on the to-do list. More dangers loomed on every vessel traveling towards freedom. Once in the South China Sea, the boats were rocked by Mother Nature's violent storms, and it became an ongoing battle for the passengers, bailing out water and throwing what little they owned overboard to save themselves from drowning. Sometimes passengers were lost, sometimes whole boats were swallowed up. In the silver lining at least there was the consolation of rain to replenish the dwindling supply of drinking water. The Thai pirates who wandered the sea were less giving. They often surrounded the weary travellers, looted each person at knife point, forced the men overboard to leave the women and children unprotected, and raped their victims, sometimes for hours as the children watched helplessly. For the extremely ill-fated, their boats were attacked multiple times, and looted down to the point where they were laughed at by their attackers for their destitution.
With millions of boat people wandering the sea, refugee camps were set up on islands in Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines to receive the homeless hoarde. There they joined the others and waited, living in squalor and slight lawlessness, yet hopeful of the chance that they would be sponsored by someone in a non-communist country. Of all the people who made it safely, I was the ultimate lottery winner. I had the most comfortable accomodations, as I was still tucked away in my mother's womb during the boat ride to Indonesia's Pulau Gulang. I remember her stories of going without food for three days, worrying and hoping that I would make it. Perhaps that explains my love of food. She never told me if she was a victim of rape, and I never knew enough about it at the time to ask. What I do know is that I was a stubborn eight pound baby who had to be delivered via C-section. I was the first in my family to be born outside of Vietnam, right into refugee status. I had no birth certificate or citizenship, but of all the people who shared the fate of the Boat People, I was given the best chances for success and happiness. After a twelve month stay on the island, we were sponsored to America, where we lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma for a short time before moving to California. I like to imagine us as a small happy family for those first few years, before rage and jealousy took over my dad and caused him to break us apart.
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