‘Between Empire And Memory’ & ‘Between Worlds: Finding Home in What It Means to Be Me’

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 -

Heaven Moua

Between Empire And Memory

Part 1: Backstory  

I hate you, 

the empire that built these cages, 

these constructs, 

so deeply embedded in our bodies, 

our minds, 

our very being. 

Social constructs— 

Race— 

It d i v i d e s us. 

It molds us. 

It wounds us. 

It haunts us. 

It shames us. 

As if we chose this. 

As if we are only 

what you see, 

what you decide. 

As if we wanted this. 

No. You wanted this. 

You— 

The power that used us, 

The power that was meant to protect us, 

The power that brought us here, 

to fill the void left 

by a home you invaded 

Part 2: The Truth 

Little did you know, 

we’re used to the power 

of your kind— 

nation-states that never know 

when to stop.

We’ve rebelled before. 

We’ve adapted when it served us, 

reinvented ourselves when we had to. 

We did it there, 

and we’ll do it here too 

Part 3: Aftermath  

I was ashamed to be Hmong. 

Ashamed because I knew nothing— 

nothing about my people, 

nothing about my truth. 

The truth was hidden, 

locked away in silence. 

Why does that matter? 

It matters because I matter. 

It matters because we matter. 

It matters because they matter. 

Our stories— 

they are our origins, 

our power source, 

the force that moves us like electrons. 

We can look back on them, 

find our way when we’re lost. 

Without this story, 

I didn’t know what I was capable of. 

I couldn’t see that the world was full of possibilities— 

my possibilities. 

I didn’t know I had the power 

to add to what we already know. 

To build on the legacy I inherited. 

What my ancestors left me, 

and what I was meant to heal from, 

to grow from, 

and to become.

Part 4: Revealed Melancholy 

Maybe the truth of being Hmong 

was what I needed all along. 

Maybe the knowledge I’ve gained 

over these years has helped me cope, 

helped me heal, 

helped me see myself. 

Maybe it was inside me all along— 

maybe they were with me 

this whole time.

Between Worlds: Finding Home in What It Means to Be Me

Dear Heaven Kajsiab Moua, 

I’m writing to you from the future, a place you might not yet fully understand but a place  that holds all the lessons and wisdom you will soon come to learn. I hope this letter  reaches you with warmth, and with the same love I wish I could have offered you back  then. I want to share something important with you, a journey I’m still walking: relearning  what it means to be Hmong, embracing our history, and coming to understand our  refugee experience not as one of loss, but as a radical act of abolition. 

Let’s start with college. I know, growing up felt like you were always in the  middle—never fully fitting in with your Hmong community or with your classmates. The  feeling of inadequacy, of not being enough or not being understood, was a constant  shadow. But here's something I wish I could have told you then: You’re not alone in this.  So many Hmong people feel the same way—caught between worlds, navigating  multiple identities, and longing for a sense of belonging. You didn’t have the language or  the resources back then to understand it, but trust me, there are others out there, just  like you. And you’ll find them in college. 

When you step into that new world, you’ll find a sense of belonging you never thought  possible. In the classroom, you’ll discover a new language to describe your  experiences, a new way to understand the history that shaped you. At first, you’ll feel  like an outsider, but soon, you’ll realize that this process of relearning and rediscovery is  exactly what you needed all along. You’ll be introduced to concepts that will challenge  your sense of self and history. You’ll see the importance of labeling experiences,  reflecting on your past, present, and future—and yes, this is a Western approach, but  don’t let that limit you. You’ll learn that multiple perspectives can coexist, and that  understanding your identity as Hmong is not a singular, static truth, but an evolving story  that is as complex as you are. 

But let me tell you, the most important lesson comes during your sophomore year. That  year will be your turning point—the year you start to relearn what it means to be Hmong,  in ways you never imagined. You’ll take an Asian American studies course, and it will  completely change your perspective. For the first time, you’ll encounter Hmong history  through a lens that acknowledges the trauma, the resilience, the compassion, and the  unyielding perseverance of our people. This is where you will begin to understand that  Hmong identity is not something to be ashamed of, but something to celebrate. You’ll  finally see our history—not as a story of victimhood, but as a tale of survival, resistance,  and radical strength. 

This is when you’ll truly come to appreciate the value of the Hmong people’s resilience,  their ability to endure against the odds. You’ll learn how our trauma is intertwined with  our compassion and strength, and you’ll realize that the very qualities you once thought of as burdens—our stubbornness, our fierce loyalty to each other—are in fact the heart  of what makes us so strong. For the first time, you’ll feel empowered to embrace your  Hmong identity, to understand that it is yours, and it is powerful. 

By the time you’re in your senior year, you’ll have taken three full Hmong courses, along  with other Asian American studies classes, all of which will deepen your understanding  of the Hmong experience. You’ll explore concepts like soft power, masculinity and  femininity across cultures, and the impact of stereotypes and identity. But the one  lesson that will stay with you, and that I want to share now, is this: Being a refugee is  an act of abolition. 

You’ll learn to see the refugee experience not as a story of helplessness, but as an act  of liberation—a refusal to accept the systems that sought to destroy our people. When  our ancestors fled the violence of war, they didn’t just escape—they resisted. They  abolished the systems that tried to confine them, that sought to erase them. Every step  of our journey, from the refugee camps to resettlement, is an act of abolition. It is the  power to choose survival, to choose resistance, to choose to build new worlds from the  ashes of old ones. 

This realization will change everything. It will shift your view of the world and of yourself.  You’ll no longer see your refugee status as something that defines you through loss, but  as a symbol of your power to reshape the narrative. You’ll come to see your history not  as something imposed on you, but as something that lives within you, something you  carry forward—not just for your own healing, but for the healing of the entire community. 

You will grow to understand that our stories, our shared histories, are the foundation of  our power. They are what move us, what guide us, what remind us of the strength we  hold within. This knowledge—this reclaiming of our history and our identity—is what will  help you move forward in life, with a sense of purpose, of pride, and of unshakable  confidence. 

So, Heaven, take heart. Even when you feel lost or out of place, remember this: you are  not alone. You are part of a long line of Hmong people who have survived, resisted, and  thrived against impossible odds. You are part of a legacy of abolition. And you are  powerful. You always have been. 

With love and strength, 

Your future self.