Boat People, or The One Who Got Away
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re on the island of Boracay, in the Philippines. The last month was much busier (more with life-stuff than with travel-stuff) than our norm, so we’re just chilling here for a couple of weeks.
Boat People, or The One Who Got Away
“We were boat people together,” he said, as he shook my hand. I pasted the most neutral-but-intelligent expression I could muster onto my face, trying not to show the forty-seven questions and emotions that had instantly bubbled up.
We were visiting some Vietnamese-American friends who own a (still Covid-shuttered) hotel on the coast of Vietnam, and had been invited (really, it was more like we were expected to join in) to a large family luncheon, celebrating the first return to Vietnam of some old friends who had been in the US for decades.
That was two months ago, and I’m still thinking about that day, mulling it over and trying to slot all the pieces into pigeonholes I can make sense of.
These are the facts:
Our hostess, Loan, has a brother, whose name, I am ashamed to admit, I can’t remember (he made an otherwise indelible impression). He left Vietnam on a boat, where he made friends with two other men. They wound up in a refugee camp in Indonesia. After four years of waiting for a visa to the US, unable to work and feeling useless and frustrated, the brother gave up and accepted a modest financial incentive from the Vietnamese government to return home.
The other two men kept waiting, and eventually got into the US, where they have lived ever since. This was their first return visit to Vietnam. They were, in the way of many older American gentlemen, a little plump, a little soft around the edges. Jovial. Happily leaning into the relaxation of retirement.
The brother, though—he was a different sort altogether. His age was unclear, but he was slim and wiry. He was quiet, but you could feel the energy beneath the surface, barely restrained. He had the kind of personality that makes you feel, when he looks at you, as if you’re the only person in the room.
He started a business when he got back to Vietnam, made a huge success of it, and now supports about fifty members of the extended family. Our friend Loan and her husband (who were living in the US most of those years) speak of him with something approaching reverence.
He sat across from me at the long, celebratory table, and kept an eye on my plate, discreetly refilling anything I finished, and making sure I got choice bits of everything. He wanted to talk about books—he reads a lot of nonfiction and is a particular fan of Jared Diamond and Yuval Hariri. Pause here, and let that sink in.
Can you talk anthropology and philosophy in your second language? Do you even have a second language? I don’t.
Loan’s brother, in his quiet, self-effacing way, is the engine that has driven the Vietnamese economy in its explosive growth. He has spent his entire adult life working harder than I can even imagine, to make life better for his family and his community. He is whip-smart, tireless, creative, and apparently has no intention of slowing down, even though he must be approaching retirement age.
I wonder what his trajectory would have been if he had been able to get into the US? Would he have been as successful? Would he have contributed as much?
I get a little verklempt every time I remember that lunch. I want to do his story justice. He was one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever met, and I can’t remember his name.
Take care,
Lisa
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