A Story of Love and Hope Amidst War and Discrimination

The Refugee as Abolition: Commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Fall of Saigon

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The Refugee as Abolition: Commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Fall of Saigon -

Anyka Swanson

I see the papers that say there is a new group of refugees.

I see the reports of men dying for unknown reasons, possibly from the trauma of war.

I see the news say that another Hmong woman was assaulted at the grocery store. 

I see how they walk with their heads down, afraid of calling attention to themselves in fear of being ostracized. 

I hear the cries and wailing when they tell their stories of their lost ones and the atrocities they had to endure. 

I hear the way their communities are riddled with depression and other mental illnesses from the war that occurred in their country that the United States started. 

I see how agent orange, yellow rain, and war propaganda still affect them to this day. 

I see how people don’t recognize Hmong veterans as “real” American veterans.

I hear people ask “Why can’t you people just be grateful that we saved you and brought you home?”, but how can you expect someone to be grateful when your country and the country they resettled in started a war where they witnessed their loved ones die and they had to completely uproot their lives? 

I see him and his family move next door. We wave at one another when we see each other. 

I see the hurt on his face when our neighbor across the street who has Trump signs doesn’t wave back to him.

I see him arguing with his father in the backyard.  

I see him push around his food as the kids taunt him for the lunch he brings.

I see him struggle for words when the kid sitting next to him tells him to go back to his own country. 

I see him be bullied in the halls for not knowing what a certain word means.

But I also see him wearing traditional Hmong clothes. 

I see him and his family in his backyard, celebrating the relatives that have passed on.

I see him and his mother cooking Khaub Poob in the kitchen.

I see him and his family laughing over stories of the past and sharing hope for the future.

I see him teaching the kids at school Hmong words and laughing at their pronunciation, but still helping them say the words correctly. 

I see him sing and dance to Hmong songs at our school’s cultural celebration event.

I see the communities start to open mental health centers and give out pamphlets with resources for veterans and those who experienced trauma.

I see parents tell stories to their children of what happened as a way of expressing their trauma. 

I see how they bring their traditional Hmong dishes to parties and the way that people enjoy them.

I read the poems and essays they write in retaliation to governments and communities erasing them. 

I learned that my home is responsible for the wounds of war and the racism they continue to experience even today. 

I see how they have to reconcile with the fact that the country that supposedly “saved” them is also the country that destroyed theirs and killed their loved ones. 

And despite everything, I see them dancing and singing. And they welcome me with open arms, sharing their food and stories, because the war could never take away their humanity and love for others.