by MAI DER VANG
As this month of May marks 50 years since the United States withdrew from its wars in Southeast Asia, including its proxy war in Laos (the “Secret War”), poet and daughter of Hmong refugees Mai Der Vang examines the Hmong experience of exile.
When my son was born almost two years ago, we held a small hu plig or “soul-calling” ceremony to welcome his spirit to the world and into our family. The shaman my parents appointed for the ceremony was both a friend of the family and kin on my mother’s side. A gregarious and exuberant man, he stood at the front door and chanted for my son’s spirit to come home while the sound of his metal hoop rattle erupted into a rhythmic chiming. After the first segment of the ritual was complete, he took a break and sat down at my dining table. It’s custom for the ritual to happen in two segments, and the second segment takes place only after the ceremonial chicken has been butchered and parboiled in preparation for divination.
I kept the shaman company while we waited. We talked about the ritual, and he explained my son was going to be fine before relaying his own experiences caring for his grandchildren. Our conversation landed on the war and the losses that followed Hmong people. The shaman told me the Americans brought war to Laos. The Americans, he said, tore the country apart and we Hmong could no longer live there as a result. There is no country for us to return to, no homeland in which to belong. Hmong people have lost so much in the process, he mourned.
I was reminded of this interaction as I considered the staggering fact that this month marks fifty years since the United States withdrew from its wars in Southeast Asia. Fifty years of cycling through trauma implanted by way of being Hmong. Fifty years to contend and reckon with the fallout of American foreign policy and yet it seems the chasm only deepens.
Growing up as a daughter of Hmong refugees during the eighties was to grow up with little to no context of myself or the collective history I shared with others. My parents rarely ever spoke about the war, but I do recall two emotionally broken people attempting to reground in a new country, with mother, at home, forlorn and some days passing the hours seated on the bed talking to herself, while father, who at one time worked as a dishwasher at a restaurant, often came home worn and defeated having had to tolerate the aggression of a world that did not look kindly upon him.
In college, the fractures came together when I finally learned about the war and the devious ends to which Hmong people served an American agenda of warfare abroad. I learned how Hmong people were left behind by the Americans to fend for themselves against the Pathet Lao communists who sought retribution. I learned about the exodus of refugees into Thailand and elsewhere. And I began to construct from these fractures a context and history for myself, a way of getting to know my parents without pressuring them to talk about the war.
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