I was in middle school when my parents committed to host a Vietnamese family that our church sponsored. My memories hold the perspective of a young girl who never quite understood. My family spent a lot of time turning our unfinished basement in New Jersey into a space suitable for a father with 2 young boys. Imagining what they would need, how big the kids would be, what size clothes their dad wore...In hindsight it was an incredible step of faith for my newly Christian parents to be taking - for anyone to take!
Our church wanted to help support the transition for the family. The father of the family had worked with the US Army against North Vietnam in 1975, was imprisoned for doing so, and then was forced to flee Saigon with only 2 of his 5 children to a refugee camp in the Philippines. After a year of living in the refugee camp, he and his children were sponsored to come to America.
I had no idea the impact those two little boys would have on my life. Our new friends arrived with wide eyes and empty hands. To this day I can't imagine that year in the camp, or how it felt to constantly miss their mother, siblings, always wondering what might be happening in their old home. During their time with us, they learned a little English, but 99% of the time we communicated through drawings, charades, and guessing. Slowly we learned that the dad had been a mechanic. This meant he had an employable skill! We quickly set out to teach him the English words for all the parts of a car (not being mechanics ourselves, this was a stretch!). The boys were quickly registered in school where an ESL program was in place. One of them was almost completely deaf. Having lived by the ocean his whole life, but without access to medical care for ear infections, he became deaf. The father eventually communicated that was why he chose that particular son - to try and save his hearing. By the time he got the antibiotics he needed in the States, however, it was too late. I still feel grateful any time my kids receive medicine for ear infections.
From my perspective, I remember the dad continually looking for ways to give back around the house. I think he felt like a burden to our family. If a leaf even dared fall on the lawn, he was there with a rake. We cooked together often since it didn’t require much communication, and he cooked for us often. Imagine our faces as he wielded a knife like a machete and cut a whole chicken into bite size pieces! Bones and all! But besides the fun we shared, his constant request was for help for his wife and children he had been forced to leave behind.
I don't think he had even settled into his new home in our basement before he asked if we could send help to his wife and children. He had been away from them for over a year. I remember the worry lines that he seemed too young to have. Whenever he made money, we would go to Kmart to buy as many pairs of bright blue Levis as we could find. He sent them to her to sell in her store, hopeful that they could provide income for her to feed their kids.
He went on to set up an apartment and supported himself on a mechanic’s salary. He had ongoing friendship and support from our church helping him furnish the apartment. But I know nothing could fill the void or calm the anxiety he carried daily for his family in Vietnam. For 7 years he and all the members of our family and church worked to get his wife and children reunited. Never will I forget that day of reunion at the airport. From this step of my parents' faith and the courage of this father, there are now generations of relatives who are Vietnamese business owners, grandchildren and new spouses filling out this remarkable family. They now vacation in Vietnam to visit friends and family who didn't leave and are fully contributing members of our American society with citizenship certificates hung proudly in their homes. One of those sons went on to serve in the US Air Force and their children hope to as well.
So with that story in my rearview, here we are again. 37 years later, I sit here in another American refugee crisis. I’m watching the same scenes from Saigon in 1975 play out in Kabul, Afghanistan in 2021. It feels like deja vu. I saw those pictures in high school and I’m trying to reconcile the fact that those two little boys and their father survived those events. But they did. How could that be happening again? Another US occupation, another horrible military departure, another collapse of a country and another incredible opportunity for new friends. These Afghani refugees will inevitably inspire me and my kids with their courage for the next generation. It’s my prayer that one of my children will be able to tell a story just like mine 37 years from now.