Thanksgiving as a Child of Refugees

I love Thanksgiving holiday. When I was in 6th grade our family copped onto doing a turkey for Thanksgiving because my parents finally became naturalized citizens. When mom brought out the turkey marinated in oyster sauce, star anise, and a cocktail of other Vietnamese spices, dad stood up during dinner and patriotically proclaimed, “This year we are celebrating the American tradition of Thanksgiving. Lory, lead us in the traditions that they teach you in school about Thanksgiving.”

“Ummm….I think we’re just supposed to eat turkey and mashed potatoes, dad,” my awkward 12-year old self responded.

“Well, then stand up and lead us in the pledge of allegiance. We’re doing Thanksgiving this year like Americans,” urged dad.

And that was how my Vietnamese refugee parents celebrated their official new identity, despite having lived in the U.S. for over a decade prior to obtaining citizenship. There’s no better holiday for refugee immigrants than Thanksgiving because those who’ve tasted near death have everything to be thankful for.

In 1978, a few years after the fall of Saigon, my parents had no choice but to flee their country. A lot of their relatives and friends were imprisoned for fighting for the anti-Communist Viet Minh. People with land and property were bereft in the new regime — having their property taken away from them by the Viet Cong (“VCs”). There was neither hope nor a future for a generation of young people, like my parents were, at the time. Staying in their country meant internment, hunger, brainwashing with communist propaganda. Their only option was to escape. But escaping the country was risky business. Refugees could choose from 3 possible “adventures”: (1) land in a new host country that was ambiguously receptive to their presence in order to make a new life; (2) get caught by the VC/get shot/injured in the process and end up in a dingy prison for an indefinite amount of time; or most likely (3) die during the perilous escape mid-journey somewhere in the South China Sea due to: sickness, sea pirates who raid your money then rape or kill you, or get gunned down in the water by VCs patrolling the waters who deem you a traitor to your country.

My own parents’ tale is probably like that of most of their peers. They had twice before attempted to escape Viet Nam. Being that my mom’s family lived right off of the fishing coast of Viet Nam in the village of Mui Ne, fleeing the country was an accessible reality with all of the boats dotting the Mui Ne beach. An escape was usually headed by an “Organizer.” This person had connections to small boat owners who could shuttle people into the water from the beaches to the deeper sea where larger boat owners would take passengers to nearby Malaysia, Hong Kong, Philippines, or Thailand. The Organizer also had to be connected to local “Runners,” if you will. Runners were those who knew folks on the ground with money, who could fund the trip, making the risks of fleeing worthwhile to the large boat owners. The Runners usually packed the flight list with their own family members, eager to escape the hopelessness of Viet Nam.

Passengers and boat owners would plan for months, storing up government rationed oil, canned meats, rice grains, and other supplies that they would need to squirrel away for the journey. People used to literally bury the rations underground near their houses so that VCs would not suspect a stockpile of supplies for a possible escape.

Because of my mom’s geographic advantage, most of the small boat owners who were smuggling people off the beaches were her relatives, neighbors, and friends. Often mom would learn about an escape after the fact and only then realize who was involved in organizing it. Everything was clandestine.

After two failed attempts at escaping the Communist regime, my parents finally met with success on their third try — quite serendipitously. In those days, no one told anyone about their escape plans. If the VC’s or their community snitches found out (think red hunts of Cold War paranoia) then no one was safe. The escapee could be shot or imprisoned in concentration camps indefinitely. Their real or personal property would be confiscated for the government. Their families would never see them again. Naturally then, it was common for husbands and wives not to tell each other of a planned escape out of safety concerns. Added to that, an organized escape would often have to disband or change plans at the last minute. The VCs were very good at holding weekly propaganda meetings, brainwashing the youth into reporting any suspicious activity that seemed to go against the government agenda. In a time when there was little to no future for anyone, the recognition from prominent, power-wielding VCs was too alluring for young, impressionable citizens.

So one fateful night, dad’s plans to go “fishing” out in the sandy beaches of Mui Ne, was actually a secret operation among 20+ fellow villagers, cousins, acquaintances, and unmet countrymen, who each had their own alibi to escape. They packed only bare necessities: gold or other jewelry that could be traded for money or goods would be worn on their bodies, canisters of oil for fuel, canned goods, powdered packages of milk, sugar and salt.

The evening of departure came. Dad still had not told mom. They’d had my brother (then an 18 month old baby), and telling mom meant having to figure out what to do with my brother. These dangerous missions were usually laden with this order of people:

1. Single men who had nothing to lose if caught.
2. Married men, who had everything to lose if they stayed in a place with no future (better to make a future somewhere else and figure out how to bring the wife and kids later once safe harbor was had).
3. Families with older kids (babies were usually left behind for fear of their safety and the danger they pose to the rest of the group should their cries arouse suspicion).
4. Single women who were poor and had nothing to lose by staying.

Dad left the house that afternoon. Mom thought he was going to catch some fish and continued to nap with my brother in her arms. A few hours later, just before sunset, my aunt Di Ba, who was visiting from Saigon, asked mom if she was planning on visiting her in-laws so my brother could see his grandparents. When mom replied, “no,” after some hesitation, Di Ba finally told my mom to pack her gold. Di Ba, as the Runner organizing this particular escape plan, knew that my dad was fleeing the country that night. Mom had better get ready to go, too. Without a moment’s hesitation, mom went straight into flight mode and quietly got ready without rousing the suspicion of any of the cousins who were in the house. Di Ba told her where the meeting point was for the rendezvous. “Take my son to my husband’s grandfather and have him hide the baby in a basket. Tell grandfather to take the baby basket to the beach, as though he were taking out the trash, and we will find him and take the basket with baby inside.”

Mom went to the market to buy some extra packages of dry milk powder for my brother. She combined that with the stash she’d already kept from the past failed trips. At sunset, she went to the meeting point without saying goodby to anyone in her family except for Di Ba. At sunset, her grandfather-in-law came out to the beach with a basket that had clothes loosely thrown over the top of my partially drugged-up brother, ready for his quiet journey to freedom.

After a few days of seasickness on the boat, my family arrived off the coast of Malaysia, where thousands of countrymen already created makeshift refugee communities using tarp, blankets, and other materials passed out by aid organizations and volunteers. My family reunited with several friends who had fled months ahead of them at the refugee camps. The refugees somehow figured out how to band together and create a market for trading amongst one another and with locals for food, clothing, and other necessities.

After months of waking multiple times during middle of the night to walk in several minutes of darkness to the designated latrines, mom found out she was pregnant with me. The constant struggle of trying to survive in a makeshift tent on the beach of Malaysia distracted mom from realizing that her nausea was more than just seasickness and food borne illness. By then, I was already past the first trimester. Volunteer doctors who visited the refugee camps refused to perform the abortion mom was desperate to have in the midst of her fears and uncertainties of surviving. So by God’s sheer grace, I was allowed to live, though that was not the destiny my parents had in mind for me at the time.

Nearly a year after they fled Viet Nam, my parents were able to immigrate to the United States. I was born in Indiana a few months later. Despite the many horrors caused by U.S. involvement in the Viet Nam war, there was a country full of people who were desperate for outside intervention against a Communist regime. When it came time to flee their homeland, those people chose to run in the direction of America. The land of freedom and hope and of those who risked their lives to champion those rights for even the Vietnamese. Though my family doesn’t say the pledge of allegiance at Thanksgiving anymore, we are nevertheless truly thankful for a country that welcomed our immigrant family.