What It Means to Be a Refugee
I might be homeless, but I’m not hopeless.
To be a refugee is to be a warrior of hope. It is not a distant dream but a guiding light that illuminates one’s path. Through the darkest nights and stormiest seas, one clings to the flickering flame of hope. It is about cultivating dreams and aspirations, no matter how insignificant, and believing in the possibility of brighter days.
September 14, 1988. Bataan, Philippines. I always remember this date. It was the day my family left the refugee camp. Our journey to a brighter future was about to materialize, finally.
I had dreamt about this day ever since the horrific escape on the Mekong River from Laos the year before. Just when I thought I’d exhausted all my will to survive, the day we had all been waiting for had arrived. All those nights of Buddhist prayers before going to sleep had finally paid off.
Leading up to this day was a somber story of survival.
Life had taken its toll on my scrawny body and I had succumbed to a lost soul. The combination of losing my father, losing my home, and losing everything had permeated my entire being with despair I couldn’t escape. Nothing could ever prepare you to cope with such agony at such a young age, or at any age, for that matter.
The pain would come in massive waves like the tsunami, crashing mercilessly on the shore that had slammed me further down the sea. I was emotionally paralyzed and couldn’t run for a higher ground.
After the pain subsided, a faint voice whispered softly, just enough to muster the strength to rise and move forward.
“We are going to America. We are going to a new home.”
In my fragile moments when my heart eclipsed into darkness, I heard this voice.
What was seen and felt at The Philippine Refugee Processing Center (PRPC), aka the Philippines camp, was a defiance in the face of unfortunate circumstances. Today, we hear stories of the Karen, Syrian, and Ukrainian refugees — tales of destitution with cries of desperation, portraits of homelessness and helplessness, and teary eyes shown out of despondency.
That’s also my story, albeit at a different place and time. The circumstances and living conditions of refugees aren’t all that different now from what they were thirty years ago. I remember the crowded tents, the scarcity of food, and the uncertainty that shrouded our lives.
The Philippines camp was the final stop for us Indochinese refugees before making our way to permanent resettlement in the U.S. To understand my story in a historical context, Laos was targeted by the American bombing campaign to stop the spread of communism, which affected Lao and Hmong people. When the country fell to her knees, thousands risked their lives fleeing the civil war.
Despite having experienced hardship at two crammed and harrowing camps, it was hope that reminded me that even amidst the darkest storms, I could find the strength to endure another tsunami-like fate.
“We are going to America. We are going to a new home.”
I’d hear this little voice again. No, I was not hallucinating.
This place was a far cry from Napho camp in Thailand that we had endured the year prior. Everyone here was a lot more cheerful and eager to close this chapter of their lives.
Our days at the camp were numbered and the end was within sight. I couldn’t wait to part ways with my old, raggedy clothes riddled with holes and torn stitching. I had been wearing the same cotton shirts and faded jeans for over a year, and I was beginning to outgrow them. My one and only pair of sandals had loose soles, and no amount of glue could repair them.
I couldn’t wait to leave the shelter that the locals referred to as the bunkhouse. Our family of four lived in a space no larger than 8 feet by 9 feet which had deteriorated from previous refugees who had occupied it. The first level housed a rectangular table that served as a multi-purpose piece. We’d use it as a living and dining space during daytime and turned it into a bed for my brother at nighttime.
Once you climbed up the ladder in the bunkhouse, you reached the wooden floor — no beds. We’d spread out a net to protect ourselves from the mosquitoes while we slept on plastic mats. None of us dared to make any complaints or requests when things were broken. Refugees didn’t have right to any of that.
I wouldn’t miss the showers in the outhouse with gecko and lizard as uninvited guests and the ordeal of unclogging squat toilets armed with nothing but a bucket of water. Every time the breeze passed through our room, I’d smell urine strong enough to make me want to crawl under the plastic mats and close my nose. But at least we had a roof over our head.
For some reason, the will to survive often weakens when life is easy, when things are calm, and troubles seem distant. It is a comforting illusion that trouble will never visit. This illusion can foster compassion and understanding in some, while diminishing it in others.
Resilience, I discovered, was not just about enduring hardships but also served as the silent alchemy of transforming hardships into beauty and meaning that adorned the simplest of life’s moments. It was about adapting to change, growing stronger with each trial, and believing that somewhere in the shadows, an unseen path would always emerge, inviting us toward the unrevealed wonders of the journey ahead.
From my own perilous journey, I realized that even in the depths of despair, the wings of hope could emerge, carrying us toward a brighter horizon. In these moments of trial and tribulation, stories of unwavering courage came to life, inspiring those who bear witness.
As I closed the most difficult chapter of my life, I could feel my heart flutter, a rush of excitement and anticipation sweeping over me, like a surge of life-infused energy.
We gathered amid a backdrop of dust and uncertainty to bid our farewell to our neighbors and friends. With each goodbye, we whispered promises of reunions in a safer, promising future. That calming night before we departed the camp, I heard a voice in my dream.
“We are going to America. We are going to a new home.”
When I opened my eyes, I saw a shadow of my father.
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