English Version

- THE JOURNEY OF MINOR EXODUS REFUGEES

- REMEMBERING STEVE JOBS

THE JOURNEY OF MINOR EXODUS REFUGEES

Saigon (the capital of South Vietnam – Republic Vietnam) fallen down on the 30th April of 1975. As same as all Southern civilians or army officers, our family was kicked out of the house (public residential housing for officers’ family while they served the country) where we had a wonderful, happy childhood.

Our Dad was forced going to a concentrate camp (for all army officers) by the winners from Northern Vietnam. Our Mom brought us to the house that our parents built up from years and years of savings. It is my parents’ own property but this house is also confiscated just because it was rent by an US officer until April 1975, and just because my Dad is an army officer.

Worse than twice times losing home, we grew up without father, to suffer tremendous unexpected hardship when Daddy, the sole breadwinner of the whole family being, kept in “re-education camp” together with thousands of Southern Vietnamese officers.

Those sad days, without any hope, without any light, even a dime light at the end of a long black tunnel, have become a horrible memory in our mind, not only in the past but it also remains forever. In that circumstance, our mind grew up much faster than our physical body and real age. We thought and acted as an adult although we‘re still in elementary or junior high school because the new government treated us with horrible, discriminated way as they did to all children of political prisoners, the ones who served in Army of Republic Vietnam. While they were in re-education camps with hard labor and an empty stomach –filled in with a little bit food- daily; at home, their wife and children were discriminated and classified as the 14^th, in the 15 levels of Vietnamese society at the time.

Therefore, beginning of the 80s (the 20^th century), foreseen no future for us, Mom did the best she can, with supporting from grandparents , sent us, one by one alone, escaping the country on tiny boat with strangers. It’s a really hard and heartfelt decision for her, sending her little naive children into an uncertain and dangerous journey without any chaperon or money. But she did that because she believes if we can reach the freedom land, a place has no jail time for innocent people, we can go to College and become a well-rounded people.

Sometime, if it’s unlucky, boat people was arrested before they reached international ocean borderline, they had to serve jail time (just because of “the crime”: seeking for freedom oversea).

As same as other political prisoners’ wife, Mom had to struggle with earning living as a breadwinner, to raise us alone, to support Dad in the whole decade - in “re-education camps” from Northern to Southern Vietnam-. At the time, here and there in Vietnam, it seems there were more jailhouses than schools and factories. So we had no other choice, besides to become a boat people, to cope with so many dangers in an uncertain journey on ocean; it seems to bring our own life gambling with destiny, with tremendous uncertain ocean.

Southern Vietnamese folks at the time had a popular poem when mentioning about boat people:

“Escaping successfully, you can support mother.

Being kept back in jail, mother has to support you.

The journey ends at the bottom of ocean, your body will feed fishes”

It means the possibility to reach a refugee camp is only one third. But many mothers emotionally sent their children to the most dangerous journey, knowing that if destiny doesn’t smile, they’ll lose their offspring forever.

In one and a half decade, from 1975 to 1990, disappointed by communist government, hundreds of thousand exodus boat people run away from the communist country successfully, they arrived in the first asylums around South East Asia such as: Banthad (Thailand), Galang (Indonesia), Pulau Bidong (Malaysia), Palawan (Philippines) White Head (Hong Kong)….

On the other hand, a couple of hundred thousand boat people unfortunately never reach destination, they are rest in peace in Deep Ocean forever.

The historic event April 1975 turned our life into a topsy-turvy chaos, Dad became a political prison, and our home was lost twice. As a result, it seems our teenager time was robbed abruptly; although still in the childhood, our mind was suddenly mature as much as adults. We never had the chance to enjoy our sweet sixteen, the most precious time of one’s life To recall those days, we could not imagine how miserable our Mom was when she suddenly became the sole breadwinner in a family with five children ,all are under 16 years old, and the husband was in” re-education camp” without knowing the released time, without any conviction , without any crime. Our grandparents and the extended family gave us a big hand during that hardship time. Due to all of those reasons, we were much mature and wiser than our peers.

In the darkness of life at the time, Mom sent us, one by one, to escape Vietnam by boat. She cried the most when saying good bye to me (her only daughter) at the Saigon bus station. She wore a huge hat helping her to cover the tears nonstop rolling one after another on her face. In a corner of a bus, I cried silently, hiding my red swollen eyes under a hat to cover my face, so other passengers would think that I was sleeping. I escaped the country illegally, as all boat people, so all feelings definitely must be hidden.

Almost a week floating on surface of immense ocean, there was only sky and water - both are blue in daytime and dark at nighttime. Besides us, 57 boat people on a tiny wooden boat -its length is only about 35 feet- ; there was nothing else, even a seabird. I thought about everyone, everything that I left behind in the motherland, and missed my parents more than ever. But I’m still satisfied with my choice, the choice separates a teenager girl with parents and all brothers, and the reunion is definitely uncertain.

The first couple days on the oversea journey, because of seasick, and because the tiny boat was too light under ocean wave, we vomited everything that was still in our stomach. Two days later, when our body was adjusting along the current condition, the “floating feeling”, I became healthy and got back all energy of a teenager although we were unable to eat anything in two days because of seasick,

When the runaway boat passed the international ocean borderline, I was allowed to stand up on the deck breathing fresh air of ocean, I felt like I also can breathe and “touch” freedom feeling.

Luckily, my journey with fifty six other boat people was so peaceful, and successful. More than that, the perfect weather of June helped our tiny boat moved faster than expectation, we reached directly Terengganu, a small village of Malaysia after five days and six nights floating on ocean surface without any accident, without confronting to any pirate.

As soon as reaching Malaysia territory, together with the boat captain, I had to explain to Malaysian officers why we came to their country illegally without any permission. That’s just the first time, a beginning for a repeated explanation (from the time until now) to answer to so many people from different countries why we become exodus refugees.

The first day on the ground after a floating week on the ocean, we felt unbalanced again. Stepping on smooth floor, I still had to hold either a wall, the edge of a table or bed…. to cope with unbalanced illusion.

Just three days later, after interviews with Malaysian officers were done, UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) transferred us to Pulau Bidong , a big Island along Malaysian sea, by a medium but stable metal boat named “Blue Dart” . That short trip is really ” a paradise” compared with the long escaped trip from Vietnam to Malaysia that we’re just through. It was no anxiety, no fear, and of course no vomiting.

Pulau Bidong is one of a few refugee camps that belong to UNHCR in South East Asia. It was built up after the Vietnamese wave risk their own life just because of “freedom”. When I arrived in Pulau Bidong, the island was completely organized systematically. There were four schools: three for children (elementary, junior high, and high schools were directed by Ms. Carol, an Australian Catholic Sister), one vocational school for adults (was run by Malaysian Red Cross). There were Catholic and Baptist Churches, Temple on a small hill named “Religious Hill” by refugees. There was also a hospital with an interesting name: “Sick Bay”.

As new comers, we were served with a huge pot of noodle as exact as the ones that United Nations and International Red Cross served the victims of Tsunami in at the end of 2004 in Indonesia and Thailand.

That’s the first time in my life; I was fed by total strangers, lonely in an asylum. My tears kept fallen down, one after another, when thinking of Dad is still in “re-education camp” , Mom is lonely at home, definitely she was praying for all her teenager children who are scattered in three different refugee camps of three nations.

In my thought, a girl, just finishing high school as me, must be brave to run away from the country alone without any chaperon or money. But when coming to the minor refugees section (a longhouse in Pulau Bidong for children under sixteen years old came to the asylum alone, without relatives or chaperon), I did realize a lot of youngsters who were from 6 years old to 16 years old are much more courageous than I was.

At the minor refugees longhouse, there was Hanh who was only eleven years old, intelligent and as mature as an adult. His Dad has been in “re-education camp” as mine and thousands of Vietnamese military officers. His mother sent him to escape Vietnam with strangers. Along their run away journey, the tiny refugee boat was robbed by Thai pirates, they kidnapped some young refugees women, destroyed the main engine. After that, the boat floated with a small supplemental engine almost a week, everyone were dehydrated and hungry, some of them were unconscious, some was passed away, their corpse was buried in deep ocean. That tragedy made the eleven years old boy being much more mature and wiser than his peers. Instead of wandering around the island, swimming, or playing soccer as other boys who were accompanied by parents, Hanh spent most of his time at high school, studying either English, or Math.

Over there, there was a thirteen years old girl named Huyen whose the whole family, together with other refugees, were missing in ocean when their refugee boat was upside down due to a hurricane. It seems God helped Huyen, magically; somehow, the young girl was able to hold on an empty plastic container, floating on ocean almost a half day. Destiny still smiled with Huyen. Later on, another refugee boat, on their way to the Malaysian Asylum, found the little girl dehydrated, as thin as a leaf floating on water surface, in unconscious condition with closed eyes, her hands was still holding tightly the floating device. They rescued her, and brought her with them to the first asylum.

Over there, there was Viet was quiet but really mature although he was only fifteen years old at the time, his house was confiscated, his Dad was in jail just because he was one of the richest ones at Saigon when the city fallen down in April 1975. Desperately, his mother arranged for him to escape the country, seeking freedom at a capitalist country where wealthy is not a “crime”.

And there were more youngsters in minor refugees longhouse, each of them had to suffer a drama really early in their innocent life.

During eleven months to live in the first asylum, with English was learnt from high school and from books in the camp library, I was able to work voluntarily as translator or interpreter for some UN officers, or Americans, Australians, and Canadians delegation officers when they came to Pulau Bidong to interview boat people, their potential residents.

Until now, I still carry the emotional feeding when I interpreted for UN officers to interview young female boat people who were raped by Thai pirates during the journey oversea, the youngest one was only twelve years old! At the time, Mr. Alan Vernon, the UN officers’ chief assigned me to interpret for two female UN officers and to write down reports for the robbed refugee boat. That’s a sensitive and heartfelt duty. At a certain level, beyond the suffering ability of human being, the raped victims that their face was still horrifying, but they told their own tragic and unfortunate story with calm, monotone voice as they were talking about daily weather or gossiping about fashion, while Ms. May, the UN officer, and I had tearful eyes. When finishing a report of a robbed boat in which someone was rapped, my long sleeves often got wet because of tears. (We don’t have Kleenex tissues in the refugee camps). We always wondered that the direct suspect in this crime is Thai pirates, who is the indirect one?

That‘s a busy time. I voluntarily helped UN officers at daytime and taught English at high school in the evenings. My students were only younger than me a few years. The curriculum only contains two subjects: Math and English. Textbooks are “English for Today” from the first book to the third one. Before leaving Vietnam, I only studied up to the fourth one in a set of six books, but my ability was better and better when I communicate in English daily with many UN officers. I taught teenager students with all dedication as I was teaching my own little brothers or sisters. I instructed the youngsters everything I know, transferred knowledge to them as much as they could get although I have never been trained formally about teaching skill.

As volunteered teachers at schools for refugee students, we made joke exaggeratedly that we invented a “new teaching method”; the method contains “small cats carrying big mice”.

Once, when teaching a new word “dignity”, I didn’t know how to explain the meaning of that word to students, I had to write down an example “we lost everything but never lose our dignity”. From nowhere, tears rolling on my cheeks, most of the students at the time, from eleven to sixteen years old were also crying. Those tears somehow have been still remained in my memory until now, to re-enforce the belief that the whole exodus generation will know how to live their life perfectly after what they were through; they will never make their parents being disappointed. And they won’t waste their parents’ sacrifice for their better future.

Twice weekly, “Blue Dart’ (the iron boat of UNHCR going from Malaysia to the island and vice versa) brought basic food for refugees such as: rice, sugar, salt, oil, noodle, cabbage, drinking water, eggs, and chicken. Sometimes, we were given fruits as pineapple, watermelon…

Most of boat people came to the first asylum with empty hands and the only clothing that we were wearing, and nothing else. On Pulau Bidong, there was a warehouse with a lot of second hands clothes that came from American Red Cross or thrifty stores in the US. Once in a while, we were given clothes from that warehouse. It‘s usually not fitted, we had to repair into smaller size, so we can wear properly as clothes bought from stores. Actually, UNHCR did the best they can in protecting and taking care of political refugees.

After the US delegation interviewed and looked after each case, whoever was allowed to immigrate in the US will be transferred to Bataan, a transit camp in Philippines. Over there, most of refugees, potential residents of the US, were taught English in the morning and US cultural orientation in the afternoon. On the other hand, another small refugee group, called “Teacher Aid”, learnt American culture and living style in the morning and worked voluntarily as Teacher Assistant in the afternoon at classrooms. In Bataan transit camp, life was much better and more optimistic than the first asylum because we knew the time we’ll arrive to the second country, a new homeland with a lot of uncertain new things but we’ll definitely got freedom back and can pursue American dream.

In Philippines, I got more time to self study, to prepare myself physically and mentally to begin a new life in a new country, a start up with zero, but at least I won’t be classified as the 14^th social class citizen as in Vietnam.

During six months to learn about American culture in Philippines, a few times, “Teachers Aids” were driven to visit Manila, the capital of Philippines. From the comfortable bus windows, we observed Manila and felt sorry for our motherland was left behind from the world since the war ended in 1975.

The self pity feeling was getting bigger when we came to Tokyo, the capital of Japan, on the way to the US. Through airplane windows, we saw multi- color lights of Tokyo sparkling at nighttime, to opposite with Saigon usually in darkness in the whole decade after April 1975.

I arrived in the US one week before Christmas. completed the last duty was given by UNHCR , together with another boat people: guiding the group of eighty five refugees, -including a few Laotians and Cambodians also left their country for freedom as us-, in a journey around a half globe, from Manila through Tokyo , to San Francisco.

Among tall and self confident American passengers with heavy luggage and backpack, coming back home for holidays, it’s easy to recognize the small and worrying refugees, with opened eyes happily and strangely. In their empty hands, there were only two small while plastic bags: one from UNHCR and one from IOM (International Organization for Migrations) contain personal ID and official paper allowing them to immigrate in the US.

Being well prepared with “American Culture Orientation’” at transit camp in Philippines, with English skill was more improved day by day after more than a year to work and communicate with a lot of people who speaks English very fluently, I was not so naïve about new life in the second country. However, lifestyle in the new country is total different with what I’m used to live back home.

From different refugees camps, from different countries: Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia, and Philippines, all of my brothers and I came to the US at different years, just like many small rivers turn together into one big ocean. We start a new chapter of life at the freedom and opportunities country with energy of the twenties years.

In a corner of our mind, there is always unforgettable images of our parents: the image of Father with grey hair at the age of early 50s, and the image of Mother with sad and skeptical eyes at the time to say farewell secretly to us are the most powerful energy to help us in the start-up time in a new country with empty hands, with all strange people, strange things.

One of my Dad’s friends, immigrated in the US since April 1975, was working at USCC, a charitable catholic organization, guided me to apply the financial aid one time for a new immigrant. I got a check US$650.00, a recommendation letter from USCC, and to be on my own way. Unfortunately, I was offered an entry level job at a big company and started working only after just two weeks living in the new country. That was January, the beginning of winter, it’s really cold. Each morning, I had to wake up early, to wait in forty degrees Fahrenheit at a bus station. When I breathe, smoke came out from my nose because of cold weather. I wore three layers of clothing, the winter clothes that I bought from Good Will stores with a tiny budget of the new immigrants without any financial support.

A week later, almost getting sick due to the first winter in America (and it’s also the first winter in my life), I bought an used Toyota Celica , a fourteen years old car with $650.00 that I was help from public assistance. And I spent my first paycheck to hire a private instructor guiding me how to drive. So it’s more convenient to commute.

Our life at the time was a triangle, in which, one point is home, the second one is school, and the last one is the working place. I had no spare time when carrying both full time job and full time student. Even no time left for homesick.

Coming to the US more than ten years after Southern Vietnam fallen down, much later than the other ones, we started school immediately, did not waste any more time. I’m used to go to school full time. In summer school, less classes and higher tuition fees, I only took a couple classes, and worked part time seasonal job at a Recreation Park in order to save more money.

Sometimes, when getting tired, I had to lift myself up with a popular statement of Americans “no pain, no gain”, and remembered our parents’ expectation when they had to sacrifice everything to send their offspring away from home, with an uncertain reunion day. Sometime, coincidentally listening to a Vietnamese song with emotional lyrics such as:

“Whoever came back Vietnam, please carrying my thought and my heart to someone who has been still in (political) jail.”

My tears were always fallen down because that reflected exactly my feeling. My Dad was still a political prisoner at the time. On the other hand, my determination was higher than ever. I force myself to try my best so my parents would be happier, getting more energy to suffer their life in a communist country,

Once at scholarship awards ceremony, I was scheduled to talk about myself in three minutes. Although “the speech” was well prepared with special thanks to the scholarship foundation and everyone who gave me a hand so I became an A student at junior College in my first year in the US, but I only could speak about two minutes:

- … Special Thanks to all my teachers, to the scholarship committee who gave me the award. Thank you America to welcome me as well as all exodus refugees, to help us to stand up on our own feet. This honor would be dedicated to everyone who sacrificed for me to have this day; dedicated to my Dad, a political prisoner in communist re-education camp just because he was a soldier in Southern Vietnam Army. This honor is also dedicated to my Mom who did the best to raise us alone in a perfect way…….

Emotionally, I was unable to finish my speech, one of my instructors, who left Poland to immigrate in the US in the 60s, understands a refugee’ feeling, so he helped me to fill in remaining time. It seems “making a scene” but out of my expectation, the scholarship committee decided to give me the award for the next school year (without going through regular paperwork) as long as my grade is B plus or higher. The amount from scholarship although is small, but enough for a poor college student as me to cover tuition fees, housing, and clothing cost in a year. That’s an important aid for me in financially and spiritually in junior college years.

In a corner of memory, there’s always something becoming a long life emotion feeling, it ‘ll never go away, such as my escaping journey oversea, the bite and sour taste when I vomited everything from my stomach has still hung on as it just happened yesterday. Therefore, once I was chosen as “employee of the year”, the award is a cruise trip one week for two persons. That brings back a boatpeople’s memory so I gave the award to the runner up and to make a big surprise for everyone because they don’t know what I was through with ocean.

It’s not the only thing that the Americans, who were born in the US, don’t understand the refugees; the Vietnamese Americans escaped the country for freedom and a better future. They also could not understand why somewhere on a corner of busy streets, while everyone is hurried up , there is a skinny Vietnamese American to stand up in hours, sometime in the rain, raising a small bill board in capital letters “Freedom for Vietnam” or “Human Right for Vietnam” ….

After a few years to try our best, all my brothers and I got bachelor degree from College, have a career to earn our living instead of a job as the first couple years in the US. After finishing school, I voluntarily teach Vietnamese for my fellow countrymen who were born in the US. My students at Vietnamese schools in San Jose are teenagers but they are more childish, so different in comparison with my mature students in the refugee camp although they are the same age,

At Vietnamese school, after teaching the school curriculum, we also teach Vietnamese history and a few typical articles or poems that help students, the second Vietnamese American generation understands why we had to live away from motherland, and how hard their parents have to sacrifice everything in order they can fulfill American dream with democracy and freedom

We usually have to run along with the busy and fast life in America. But in any peaceful quiet moment, even before a meeting in the office, or being stuck on a traffic in rush hours, my thought is still wandering back home, the country that I left behind for freedom. Sadly, the way that the whole socialist system treated me, the panic and seasick feeling on the run away journey are still back, clear and sour as everything just happened yesterday.

“The yesterday story” was once clearer than ever when I visited Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). While waiting a friend at the school cafeteria, an Asian student passed by my table a few times. Lastly, he approached me then asked in English academically and politely:

- Pardon me, you‘re looked liked someone I knew in the past.

Are you Ms. Tran who taught English at Pulau Bidong High School in 1988?

Surprisingly I answered in Vietnamese:

- Yes, I am. Could you please remind me what’s your name?

The young man’s eyes are immediate sparkling. He replied excitedly:

- I’m Hanh, the youngest student in Pulau Bidong High School. Do you remember me?

It’s just like a fairy tale. I never dream that I will meet the young mature boy always studying hard, one of my favorite students again in MIT campus.

Hanh still recognizes me after fifteen years, but I cannot link the young tall man who is now standing in front of me with the back then little dark-skin boy because of seashore weather on Pulau Bidong.

When we met again the first time in the US, Hanh was in the last year of pursuing Ph. D. Degree in Mathematics, just like his dream that he mentioned in a practicing to speak English in the small class, a hot and high humidity small room with wooden walls, metal roof, surrounding by refugees’ longhouses.

He told me the whole story to convert a young Vietnamese refugee boy becoming a self confidence candidate for Ph.D. Degree in Math at MIT.

The refugee boy arrived in the US at the age of twelve at San Francisco Airport in California. From there, Hanh was transferred to Massachusetts as a minor passenger without chaperon. He was boarding first at transferred airports, and was seated at the first row, behind the cockpit, so a flight attendant can keep an eye on the lonely minor immigrant.

At the final destination, a representative of a Catholic charity organization and his god parents welcomed Hanh at Logan Airport in Boston (MA).

To immigrate in the US from Czechoslovakia (as know as Czech Republic now) in the 60s, his god parents had one birth son, and doesn’t want to adopt another son until their Catholic Church looks for a sponsor for a minor Vietnamese refugee, they looked at Hanh’s file and being impressed by the tragedy journey and the courage of the young boy, they‘re willing to adopt Hanh.

Hanh’s god father has taught English at a local high school, his mother is an Economic teacher. Hanh’s mature attitude and intelligence made his parents love him from the first moment they meet. Both of them are teachers, Hanh was an straight A student and has maintained a strong basic foundation in all school subjects, so he can get in the seventh grade as all his local peers.

Studying hard with high determination, a few years later, Hanh graduated high school as valedictorian and was accepted by MIT (one of the most prestigious private technique institutions of the word) with Math major and full scholarship. That’s really a pride of both his birth parents and god parents.

In the middle of the 90s (the 20^th century), Hanh’s biological and his two younger siblings immigrated to the US under the H.O. Program, a program allowing former political prisoners and their family to leave Vietnam for America legally as the two countries compromise . It means that now Hanh is the luckiest one when he has two sets of parents and two homes to lean on whenever his life is not smooth and peaceful. The two families just live in the two nearby cities in Massachusetts.

In order to balance his time and sentiment for both families (one giving birth and raising him the whole childhood, the other gave him a roof in a new country and guided him reaching the American dream), Hanh starts living in MIT dormitory, by that way, he also can concentrate more on studying for the last year to fulfill Ph.D. requirement as schedule. Every weekend, Hanh comes back home, staying at home with biological parents on Saturdays, listening miserable stories of Dad when he was in “re-education camp” from year to year hopeless; eating homemade Vietnamese food such as pho, bun bo from Mom. On Sundays, Hanh returned his room since his first day on the US, going to church with adopted parents, eating Vepro-Knedlo-Zelo (Roasted Pork Loin with Red Cabbage and Dumplings) a Czech dish that his European Mom cooked. His room is still the same as he still lives with his parent. In a corner of the desk, an American flag with seven red stripes, six white stripes, and fifty one stars, together with a Republic Vietnam flag with three red stripes on a yellow foundation, are still in a crystal pens holder. On a wall, Hanh’s picture on high school graduation with yellow band across the gown of a valedictorian, his eyes were sparkling with joy but still carried light sadness as same as the eyes of the young refugee boy on Pulau Bidong back then.

Although Hanh has never overeaten but he always asked for more chocolate and candies as much as he could. He brought candies into his room, wrapped carefully in plastic bags and saved in a corner of his drawer so he can send back home for his two little siblings. One of the most heartfelt stories that his American parents still remind him is colorful candies on Hanh’s first Halloween in the US. Learning from school about a special popular holiday that children would be given candies as a treat, on the evening of the last day of October, after doing homework and finishing dinner, Hanh asked his parents’ permission to walk around the neighborhood for Halloween treat. He wandered about few blocks in chilling weather of autumn and was given about 12 lbs. variable candies. The next morning, he came to post office sent a candies box to Vietnam for his two little siblings, and friends back home. Ironically, the sending cost is way higher than the candies box value itself. But that’s just the way the little boy cares about his siblings and friends. From a kid’s point of view, chocolate and candies are the sweetest and most precious things. Being a political refugee by themselves, Hanh’s god parents understood the little boy with huge sentiment.

After listening and catching up with fifteen years to make a skeptical refugee boy becoming a self confident, intellectual Vietnamese American, I also highlighted the milestone of my first decade in the US. Even in the dream, I have not thought that I’ll meet the little student on Pulau Bidong in the middle of MIT campus in Boston, MA. Life sometimes offers us wonderful reunion and sweet moment.

Wishing that I’ll meet Huyen and Viet coincidentally or eventually, as I met Hanh in the North East of the US. Maybe I won’t have the chance to meet the other special students but I still believe somewhere in this immense country, Huyen and Viet are also successful as Hanh, to demonstrate that we can do and reach the best result, such as going and graduating from College, the one that there was a time, the communist Vietnamese government blocked all of political prisoners’ children out.

All of us have the most common thing: we have to leave Vietnam when we were still teenagers, leave our parents and everything behind for freedom, equalization, and higher education. But we still carry the motherland in the most precious corner of memory. We have to bring our own life to gamble with destiny, with tremendous ocean, that’s the priceless, no amount of money can trade. There is a future ahead with unpredicted things but we’ll surely do our best because the journey across ocean was and will be an unforgettable part of our life.

Flying back to California, my mind was hanged over with Hanh’s thinking that he talked to me with a serious, mature face, and still sad eyes (as same as the eyes of the refugee boy that I first met on Pulau Bidong):

- My most pleasure thing is I fulfill my biological parents’ expectation and make my adopted parents happy, as the way to partially payback everything they did for me. The only thing that I’m not sure I can handle: “duties and responsibilities with Vietnam”. My father and his peers once in a while told me that it’s time for our generation to carry the country.

Pause a moment, he asked me (and himself):

- “Duties and responsibilities with motherland” is the most complicated thing, just you and me, or a few more people cannot generate. Do you know how our generation can make our country better?

That question has been stick in my mind. Probably it’ll take a while before I can have the appropriate answer. But I do believe that it only takes one tenth of a Vietnamese generation (both domestic and international youngsters) seriously and compromised together willing to build up the country with their heart and their mind, the country would be better off, and that honor duties will be light as the familiar backpack of schooldays.

Nguyen Tran, Dieu Huong

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