Although the Vietnam War ended nearly five decades ago, its wounds are far from healed. My most fearful memory of the war is April 30, 1975, the day South Vietnam fell to the Communists. I remember six soldiers being killed in front of my house. They were inside a tank that was struck by anti-tank rockets. The tank was immobilized by the first hit, but it did not explode until the second. The sound of their screams and the smell of burning flesh have haunted me for years.
The end of the war forced over a million Vietnamese to flee the country. The first groups of dissidents were fortunate enough to leave on airplanes and merchant ships, but later groups had to escape on small fishing boats. These refugees became known as the “boat people,” and I was one of them.
I left Vietnam at the end of 1980 on a small boat with thirty-three others, beginning an uncertain journey in search of freedom. On the first night, Vietnamese coast guards fired at us; we were caught but released after they took some of our money. On the second day, we reached international waters, finally feeling a sense of safety—though it was short-lived, as a pirate ship approached. Fortunately, the pirates only took our money and jewelry. All the women on the boat were terrified, knowing that between 1978 and 1980, many women crossing the South China Sea were raped, killed, or sold into prostitution by pirates.
The following day, our food and water became contaminated with salt due to inadequate storage. The tropical sun beat down relentlessly, and we grew increasingly dehydrated. On the fifth day, a violent storm shook our boat, and high waves tossed us from side to side. Passengers prayed to their gods for help, but the sea was indifferent. I cannot recall how long the storm lasted, only that I was exhausted, dehydrated, and nearly blind from fatigue. The next thing I remember was opening my eyes to strange faces—a Christian fishing boat owner had rescued us.
I arrived at Songkhla Refugee Camp in Thailand on the second day of Lunar New Year 1981. Five days later, I was reunited with my childhood friend. She told me about the horrors she had endured: repeated rapes by pirates. Sitting quietly on the beach that evening, we reflected on our journeys across the South China Sea. I did not know what to say to comfort her, but I felt profound sympathy. That night, I heard the gospel of Jesus Christ for the first time: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). This message led me to attend church the following Sunday, where I came to know Christ as my personal Savior.
Four months after my salvation, I was transferred to Bataan Refugee Camp in the Philippines, while my friend left for California. Ten months later, I resettled in Dallas, Texas. The transition was challenging—adapting to a new culture, language, and facing prejudice. As a foreigner, I often felt like an outsider. I was humiliated when people could not understand me, or when high school students mocked my accent and appearance. These struggles affected both my social and academic life.
In 1988, I suffered another profound loss: both my parents passed away in Vietnam on the same day due to illness. Despite these hardships, I have genuinely appreciated life in the United States. Through perseverance, I earned a college degree from Oral Roberts University (1989) and a master’s degree from Dartmouth College (1993).
Everyone has memories of the past—some joyful, others painful. My past was often difficult, and I do not always understand why things happened as they did. Yet, I remain steadfast in my faith, believing that “all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).
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