40th Anniversary of the Southeast Asian Diaspora

Chiang Rai Refugee Camp, Thailand, sometime between 1975 and 1980: Papa Thammarath and Mama Thammarath

I admit.

Growing up, I was one of those high achieving, highly tracked, annoyingly arrogant students that lived up to the model minority stereotype (ironically spend my professional life trying to dismantle this stereotype, but that is another topic).

I particularly loved social studies and history . . so much so that I actually believed that my father lied to me about being a refugee from Laos. I thought all the stories he told me as a child about fleeing Laos, villages being shot up, piles of bodies on the side of the road, my grandfather dying fighting alongside American soldiers, secretly paddling across the Mekong River at night time, and living in refugee camps were just made up because I read about the Viet Nam War and all the other wars . . there was never any mention of a war in Laos. Any refugees from Laos. Anything, really, about Laos.

My conclusion was that my text books were right and my father was wrong. Unfortunately, it was me and my text books that were completely wrong.

Anyway, there are some amazing stories being posted to commemorate the 40th Anniversary of the Southeast Asian Diaspora. Here is one: Our Vietnam War Never Ended.

Healing Has No End

My brother's family recently moved to San Jose into a small one story home with an old family friend of ours. This old family friend knew my parents and grandparents from way back when in Viet Nam. She is now a widow and has been living alone since her husband passed just a few months ago. She kindly opened up her home to my brother and his new family. Since he moved there, I've been visiting often.

Not sure why, but today something sparked my interest in her family's story as I was sitting there eating the sauteed beef and peas with rice. So I started asking her a series of questions without much pause in between.

"So Auntie...can I ask, when did your family come to the US?"
"...1986."
"How did you get here?"
"...Sponsorship by my sister."
"What happened to your family after 1975?"
"...We stayed in Sai Gon."
"Did your husband go to reeducation camp like my dad?"
"...Yes, for 2-3 years."
"What were you doing while your husband was in camp?"
"...I was taking care of my 4 kids alone."
"How old were your kids at the time?"
"...My husband left on the 23rd. I had my youngest just 12 hours after he left."
"Ohhh k...so what was life like when the Viet Cong took over?"

...silence...

I stopped chewing and placed my chop sticks on the plate. She was still facing the stove stirring the soup in the pot. I leaned to the side to see if she had heard my question but noticed that her cheeks were getting red. She started sniffling quietly and tears began to fill her eyes. She started shaking her head, shocked at her own reaction to my seemingly harmless questions. Shaking her head vigorously as if to shake the tears from her memories.

I didn't know what to say.

I felt so guilty.

I started explaining to her why I was so curious about her family's history and experiences. Telling her about the growing disconnect between refugee parents and their children and how the gap will eventually lead to an out-of-touch generation. I told her that hearing such stories are important to me, and helpful in understanding my parents and grandparents.

She responded,"My memories are too painful to recall. Let's not talk about it now." She remained silent, pulled deep into her thoughts as she continued to cook.

I withdrew and finished eating my rice. I got lost in my own thoughts. This experience just reaffirmed my understanding of disruption. Disruption of refugee memories, families, culture and experiences. I was reminded that the healing process sometimes never has an end. And that those of the first generation who struggled through the war and resettlement experience first hand are still scarred so deeply... yet remain so silent.

And for the Southeast Asian refugee, this silence... is worse than the belligerent outcry or the emotional rage.

How do we contribute to the healing process?