Perspective

I've only met my wife's dad, Hung, a couple of times.  He is quiet, friendly and generous.  From outward appearances, you would never guess the hell that he has been through.

He had grown up relatively prosperous in North Vietnam.  Unfortunately all that changed with the Vietnam war.  He was the oldest of 8 children.  His sister was killed by the communist bombs while attending a New Years party in North Vietnam in 1965.  It was the death of his sister and a desire to protect his country that motivated him to abandon his university life.  Not content to merely join, he volunteered for the Ranger branch where he was sure to see real action.    Although he was the first in his family to join, he was not the last.  His younger brothers served as Artillery Officers, helicopter pilots, platoon leaders.

Those who have done extraordinary things, almost universally, tend to down play their actions.  The way Hung tells it, he was a company commander, and he fought in the war.  The truth is, he fought in the bloodiest and costliest battles.  He was wounded, he fought on.  He lived in the jungle, caught malaria and fought on.  He was able to get brief respites from the battles and would see his wife and children from time to time.  He couldn't have known at the time how long it would be before he saw them again.

When Saigon fell, his brother, the helicopter pilot was able to rescue Hung's family, including my wife.  My wife doesn't remember all the details.  What she does remember is incredible.  She was only about 8 years old at the time, but remembers running for the helicopter.  Because of the gunfire, the helicopter had to make several attempts.  On one attempt, she and her brother had managed to grab the skids, but only the skids and they were hanging on with their upper bodies.  She looked down, her mother and younger sisters had not made it to the helicopter.  So they let go.  Eventually, they all made it onto the helicopter, to the USS Midway, and ultimately to the United States as refugees.

Hung's journey would be much longer.  While his family was starting a new life in the U.S., he would spend the next nine years as a prisoner of war.  The North Vietnamese called them reeducation camps, but that was a name only.  Nine years, working in mine fields, clearing jungles, digging wells, building barracks.  They were given almost no clothing and nowhere near enough food.  Those who complained, were beaten, sometimes to death.  The hunger was so extreme that whatever they could catch, they would eat raw.  It was his desire to reunite with his family that fueled him.

After nine years - he was finally released.  More than anything, he wanted to come to America.  There was no helicopter to take him to a US Navy ship though.  He had to slip out under the cover of darkness in a crude homemade boat.  With only a simple map and compass, the boat made its way 800 miles over the open ocean to a Malaysian oil rig.  Still the journey was not over.

He would spend the next several years moving from one refugee camp to another first in Malaysia and then the Philippines.  He did not complain.  He taught other refugees English. He taught the children Vietnamese.

Finally, 11 years later, he made it to the U.S.A. and got to see his children again.  When he had last seen them they were so young, one hadn't even been born yet.  Now they were teenagers and young adults. Even though so much time had passed and he had missed so much, he focused only on the good things.

When I saw him at one of my wife's cousin's weddings, I had read his story.  He had created a photo album of his incredible journey.  He didn't want to forget the past, but he certainly did not want to relive it either.  So we talked about the happier things in life and not about the torture and despair he had experienced.  At the wedding, he was smiling, and so happy to see his children again.

I don't know if he celebrates Memorial Day.  He should.  He is the type of person that epitomizes what this day is about.