Thaisan Tonthat | Writing

We are very lucky

Whenever I see a Vietnamese name pop up in the Uber app and the driver is of my parents' generation, I ask them if they're Vietnamese. Because I have an unusual first name, they're usually surprised when I tell them that I am also Vietnamese and we end up having an interesting conversation in (imperfect) Vietnamese. The older folks, the generation who lived through the end of the war and the following exodus, always have the most amazing stories.

The universe of people in that generation is surprisingly small, and if they now live in the West, they almost certainly share the same Vietnamese diaspora narrative. The majority of Vietnamese over the age of 40 in the US are a displaced people; they lost their homes, their families, and their country in 1975 and they all speak of a world—places, people, and events—that faintly still exists. People over 60 suffered this fate even more cruelly: they were teenagers and adults when this happened.

Today, I met a man named Nha. Nha's family was from a small town in the Mekong Delta and he escaped Vietnam in 1981 during the decade where an estimated 1-2 million people fled communist Vietnam in rickety boats after the Fall of Saigon. He was 14 when he and a family member boarded a crammed boat and made the perilous journey into the unknown sea. Despite the dangers of the open ocean and a serious threat of pirates—Nha recalled hearing stories of entire boats being slaughtered by Thai pirates and women sold into sex slavery; the UN estimates that 200,000 to 400,000 boat people perished trying to escape—thankfully, the boat made it safely to a refugee camp in Malaysia. They were very lucky.

There were six in his family, but they couldn't afford to all escape at once, so they went two-by-two over the next eight years and eventually were reunited years later in the US. Nha spent two years in the refugee camps before being lucky enough to be accepted to emigrate to California. The way he said "lucky" betrayed not a single tinge of self-pity. I could only hear equanimity and earnest thankfulness in his voice.

During the war, Nha's father-in-law was one of the four richest men in Vietnam and owned several factories in Cho Lon, the Chinese district of Saigon. When the communists came, they seized his house, his factories and everything he owned, accused him of being a CIA collaborator, then threw him in prison where he became ill and died. I listened, indignant to the injustices and tragedies Nha suffered that wouldn't be fair to have in three lifetimes, but Nha finished the story with,

"I have a son, a boy - he's 12. Here in America, if he works hard, if he's smart, he can earn a good living. We are very lucky."

He continued:

"There are sixty million people in Vietnam and maybe one million of us around the world. We are very lucky. We are the chosen ones. We have an opportunity."

Despite the horrors his family had suffered, despite losing his home and his country (pause for a moment and imagine the enormity of your homeland ceasing to exist), Nha's voice only conveyed a sense of gratitude and hope.

The conversation shifted to less serious topics like how shitty the traffic is in San Francisco and we spent the next eight minutes passing the time with idle banter. As Nha pulled to the curb to let me out, I thanked him and he pressed his hand into mine, giving me a strong handshake. I'd like to imagine it was a secret handshake for those who know the story of the Old Country, but I'm more certain it was a simple expression of joy for making a single-serve friend and an opportunity to chat in his native tongue with an interested listener.

Nha wished me well and we spent just a moment longer talking than the usual Uber disembarkation as he told me to have a good day and some other casual remarks, but as I think back on it, I can't remember what we said as I closed the door because the only words echoing in my mind from then til now have been:

We are very lucky.