Jeanne Buck Coburn, a Mary Kay Cosmetics sales director living in Waterloo, Iowa, contacted former IowaWatch intern Clare McCarthy after reading McCarthy’s Aug. 5, 2015, story Response To Refugees In Iowa Has Changed In 40 Years because two Iowans featured in a photo with the story are her parents.
Coburn told of how her parents took in the Nguyen family, refugees from Vietnam in the 1970s who moved to Iowa after the war in their country ended. McCarthy asked Coburn for help reaching out to someone in the Nguyen family who would be willing to tell McCarthy what has happened to the family.
Meantime, McCarthy prepared to interview Iowa Gov. Terry Branstad about the state’s policy toward modern day Burmese refugees.
When Jeanne Buck Coburn’s parents died, the Nguyens made the effort to return to Iowa for their funerals. Jeanne said they had very high regards for both of her parents so they were sad, but also happy to be with Jeanne’s family again after such a long time.
Jeanne’s parents wanted to be cremated so that half of them could be buried in an urn at the local cemetery and half of them could be scattered throughout their back yard.
After Jeanne’s mother died in 2008, the Nguyens wanted to help with the scattering. “It was very emotional, it was very touching, because we were all there and the family was all there.”
Jeanne explained how moved they all were, as they took a handful of her parents’ ashes and scattered them throughout the yard. “We had a lot of trees in our backyard, and we all sort of took turns and took some of the ashes and scattered them the way we wanted to.
And you know, they were very intentional and they took their time in scattering the ashes and they had scattered them carefully around all the trees—you know, the little bit that they had. And they were moved, they were sad. But I think it was a good ritual and it was good to include them in that ritual as well.”
“…they were very intentional and they took their time in scattering the ashes and they had scattered them carefully around all the trees—you know, the little bit that they had.”
Jeanne was able to get in touch with Phat (Patrick) Nguyen, who wished to communicate with me through e-mail so that he had more time to answer my questions.
I sent him several questions about his life in Vietnam and the family’s experience in the Malaysian refugee camp, along with any stories he wanted to tell me about living in the United States after his journey here.
It took several days for him to get back to me, but he replied with a lengthy word document detailing his experiences in Vietnam, Malaysia, and the United States.
I at first wanted to include all of the document, but found certain sections within it that stood out to me, particularly Phat’s description of the Pulau Bidong refugee camp.
Excerpt from Phat Nguyen, who was 16 at the time of his arrival in the United States: Many years, not long ago, I lived in Viet-Nam. Now I live across the world. In Viet-Nam there was a city. Saigon was the name.
Divided were the people. And the hate grew and grew. The Chinese fought and the Vietnamese fought. And the war was great. But now I am happy to have found a place across the world.Where life is free. And still each night I dreamt – Of friends, of a home, and of hope.
“The waves were too strong. The boat broke in two and sunk. After that unfortunate accident, everyone had to jump into the sea and swim. Some did not know how to swim and struggled holding the boards. Those who knew how to swim would help them push the boards to the shore.”
My name is Phat (Patrick) Ky Nguyen; I was born at Saigon (Cho-lon) on January 14, 1963. The Viet-Nam war had a devastating effect in the 1960’s. I almost lost most of my previous life due to the war. At the time, I was just six years old, while on the verge of sickness and almost unconscious for three whole days. Thank God for saving my life.
In May of 1978, my family was unfortunately unlucky. Because my family was oppressed and targeted, all of my family’s estate and property was taken by [the] Communist Government. This was a tragic event since my family owned a rice factory business.
Due to these harsh conditions, my family and I tried to leave Viet-Nam a month later. We purchased a nineteen-meter wooden boat at My Tho Vietnam to escape Vietnam. At that time, I asked my father to let me bring my best friend Muoi Tam Ly come with me.
He said, “No, no, no, son! You are only 15 and cannot bring your girlfriend with you.” I was very upset and had no choice. However, she was not aware that I asked my father to bring her with me; rather she gave me two pocket-sized photos to keep of her.
Finally, my family left My Tho (South of Saigon) in October 19, 1978 and four days later arrived 450 km Northeast of Kuala Lumpur in Terengganu, Malaysia. However, we were unlucky again. The waves were too strong. The boat broke in two and sunk.
After that unfortunate accident, everyone had to jump into the sea and swim. Some did not know how to swim and struggled holding the boards. Those who knew how to swim would help them push the boards to the shore. The beach was very pretty, especially after everyone was saved.
We were all extremely tired and collapsed on the beach until the police officers arrived. Then they moved us to Pulau Bidong Refugee Camp. At one time, this small island housed more than 40,000 refugees in the south side. The rest of the island was not open to the public.
It would be considered a major crime if the police found you in the forbidden area. My family boat number was ninety-five, which meant that it was the ninety-fifth boat to have arrived and the name of the boat [was] MT539.
In the early years, people lived under the trees, tents, or anything they could find to avoid the tropical, hot sun, rain, and ocean storm. Food was scarce. In the beginning, Malaysian Red Crescent Society (MRCS) provided provisions such as anchovy (salty dry fish), sardine can fish, rice, and chicken, but in very few amounts.
As years went by, the MRCS organized the island into a more orderly and civilized area. The island soon had large houses, hospitals, school, clinics, temples, churches, and some small businesses operated by refugees such as bakeries and coffee shops.
In addition, the food from MRCS was much more abundant: plenty of instant noodles, condensed milk, green beans, sugar, salts, flours, chicken, fish, and vegetables.
However, Pulau Bidong had so abundant a supply of fish around the island, so people would try to fish for food. We continued to live under the tree living for a few weeks. Then we moved to a mountain.
It was here where we learned to use a handsaw to cut down trees and use the branches to build our own house. Then afterward, once a week, we would chop the tree to the stump and cut small pieces to bring home for cooking.
Looking back, the first week arriving at the camp I was very disappointed with everything. The only thing on my mind was to go back home immediately.
Fortunately, my family and I were very lucky and only had to stay on the island camp for six months since my older brothers were former Vietnam soldiers. In April 26, 1979, my family and I left the country of Malaysia to go to Guan.
Then we flew to Hawaii in the United States where we stayed there for a night. Next day, we took another plane to go to the state of Iowa. We arrived in Iowa on April 29, 1979.
My family was the first group of “Boat People” refugees to arrive in Iowa. My family and I were extremely lucky to have had a sponsor who would pay for our way to the United States and show us how to live here.
The first house my family and I lived in was a two-story old country home. The neighbors were over a mile away. I came from a greatly populated city, and now I lived in a secluded country town.
That was the moment where I became lonelier, realizing that I had no friends, no way to communicate with others fluently, and [everything] had to be started all over again.
Sometimes at night, holding Muoi Tam Ly’s picture brought my mind to peace and I was able to get onto the next day. Later, I wrote letters back home and told her all about my new living. One time, I even thought about sponsoring her to [the] United States but then forgot I am not US citizen yet.
Throughout high school, I still wrote letters back and forth with Muoi Tam Ly. I graduated high school in 1983 and continued my education at Iowa State University. Until middle of 1986, I received a letter from Muoi Tam Ly and she told me will leaving Vietnam with her boyfriend.
At that moment I cried and cried, [and] finally just tore up all the letters she had sent to me. However, I never told her how much I care[d] about her.
Open Arms in Iowa is a five-part long-form story told in narrative form by Clare McCarthy, a 2016 Cornell College (Mount Vernon, Iowa) graduate and former IowaWatch staff writer.
McCarthy wrote this story for her senior project in narrative journalism when studying at Cornell. IowaWatch separated the complete story into five parts in order to publish it as a serial.
While he did answer some of my questions, most of the story was centralized around Phat’s undying love for a girl from his middle school in Vietnam, to whom he was forced to say goodbye when the Nguyens were driven out from the country.
Phat met Muoi Tam Ly while playing table tennis after school each day, and immediately became friends with her. Although she was two years older than he, they eventually began dating, and Phat described some of what he remembers most about their time together in Vietnam.
“I still remember before Chinese New Year where it was my first time riding a bicycle with her from Cho-lon to Saigon. Unfortunately, I got a flat tire midway and it made me feel so embarrassed. The second day we both went out again and I took her home for Chinese New Year’s Day.
Afterward, she invited me to watch her performance of the Bamboo Dancing Show in Quan 6 (County 6) with her older sister. Sometime after playing ping-pong we both [went] out for Che Ba Mau—[it’s] three-color Vietnamese cold drink dessert.
Che Bae was made in a sundae glass, containing crushed ice, red kidney beans, yellow mung beans pudding, green jellies, and coconut cream.
At night time, I came [to] her house [and] pick[ed] her up for Hong Dou Tang (Chinese mung red beans soup) or Lu Dou Tang (Chinese green beans soup). This was the most exciting time for the both of us.
As time passed, she graduated from Dong Nghia Middle School in the summer of 1978 and moved on to Tran Khai Nguyen High School, leaving me behind to stay in middle school,” Phat wrote.
Phat stayed in touch with her as best he could once he reached the United States. Even after she told him she was leaving Vietnam with her boyfriend, Phat continued to pine for Muoi Tam Ly’s love, constantly dreaming of seeing her again one day.
“From day one after she left Vietnam, I [was] always looking for her, Muoi Tam Ly. I kept in touch with some of the same schoolmates through the mail, but none of them tell me where [she] was located.
But I always kept her small photos inside my wallet. Every day I kept looking for her. Constantly, dreaming about her, but nothing would ever happen. The feeling of hopelessness left me feeling depressed and heartbroken constantly. I would cry and cry…realizing I might not ever see her again.”
“One day I hope we both can stay together. Because I trust her with my life and my heart.” In the summer of 2014, Muoi Tam Ly reached out to Phat over Facebook, asking if he remembered her. Phat was thrilled, describing it as “the happiest moment in his life.”
After messaging each other for several months, Phat declared his love for her, telling her he had kept it a secret for the past 38 years. “The first time she called me we both cried on the phone for over a few minutes,” Phat wrote.
In 2015, Phat went to Miami, Florida, to be with Muoi Tam Ly for her 53rd birthday. It was the first time he had seen her since he had left Vietnam in 1978. Phat described how they both hugged and cried and smiled at one another, not even saying a word.
https://www.iowawatch.org/2016/06/16/life-goes-on-for-vietnamese-iowan-but-a-lost-love-remains-home/
Newly arrived refugees from Vietnam ride the bus to the Ben Gurion Airport arrivals terminal, June 26, 1977 - As hundreds of thousands of asylum seekers risk their lives to reach Europe, Israeli political and religious leaders have called on the government to take in Syrian refugees.
But opponents, led by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, argue that Israel is too small, or that Israel should not accept migrants from an enemy state. Amid the debate, attention has once again turned to the time in history when Israel did accept refugees from a faraway conflict.
From 1977 to 1979, then prime minister Menachem Begin welcomed about 360 Vietnamese boat people fleeing for their lives from the Communist takeover of their country. Israel granted them citizenship, full rights and government-subsidized apartments.
If you Google “Vietnamese refugees Israel,” one of the first names that comes up is that of Vaan Nguyen, a poet and actress in her early 30s who was the subject of a tear-jerking 2005 documentary, “The Journey of Vaan Nguyen,” about the Israeli-born daughter of Vietnamese refugees growing up between two cultures.
Vaan Nguyen says she would be happy to be interviewed when her book of poetry is translated from Hebrew into English but declines an interview on the subject of Vietnamese refugees. “I’ve gotten tons of requests for interviews,” she writes with a note of weariness.
The Times of Israel sent messages to about 15 of Vaan Nguyen’s Facebook friends as well as to an additional five Vietnamese Israelis found from other sources. Only one of these 20 people replied, writing, “Hi! I’m not interested, thanks.”
Dr. Sabine Huynh is an accomplished translator and author who fled Vietnam for France as a child in 1976. She has lived in Israel for the last 15 years and although she is not one of the refugees taken in by Israel, she has ties to the community.
Huynh says she has been contacted by journalists looking to talk about Vietnamese refugees but prefers not to get involved. But Huynh does mention that she wrote a sociological research project about the Vietnamese-Israeli refugees in 2008, one that was never published even though people told her it should be.
She also recommends watching Duki Dror’s 2005 film (which can be downloaded here) to better understand the community.
Writing in 2008, Huynh describes the tension between a first generation of Vietnamese refugees who socialize mostly with each other and their sabra, or native-born, children who have Israeli friends and who switch back and forth between Vietnamese and Hebrew.
A perusal of some of their Facebook profiles reveals a second generation with Vietnamese names who are deeply integrated into Israeli society.
Most communicate on their walls in Hebrew, have a majority of Israeli friends, attended Israeli high schools and appear to have served in the IDF. One works for the police. Of those who are married, many have Israeli spouses.
“Using the Vietnamese vernacular is a symbol of adherence to the old established Vietnamese community,” Huynh says. “Showing vernacular loyalty is equivalent to showing community loyalty.”
In “The Journey of Vaan Nguyen,” 21-year-old Vaan’s father, Hoi May Nyugen, speaks to her in Vietnamese and she often answers him in Hebrew.
On a visit to Vietnam her uncle admonishes her, “You have to nurture your Vietnamese characteristics. Otherwise, you’ll be a foreigner and your kids will be foreign.”
Vaan describes how growing up, when her friends asked if she was fasting on Yom Kippur, she would often say yes, because it was easier. “I was embarrassed by my parents and then I would apologize for them and hate the white, condescending society.
I became angry and rude and ended up hating myself, looking for ways to reconcile everyone. I was ungrateful to my family, the state [of Israel], community of any kind,” she says. Her parents, meanwhile, while grateful to have been taken in, are consumed with longing for Vietnam and the idea of returning there.
The problem is the Communists confiscated the family’s lands and have no intention of returning them, as becomes clear in the course of the film. “There is nothing for me here,” says Vaan’s mother to Vaan’s younger sister, Hong Wa, in the documentary.
“I want to go back and be with your grandmother. I will take you with me. None of my girls learned how to write. You can learn the Vietnamese alphabet so that when your father and I die you can write to the family.” But Hong Wa bursts into tears. I want to stay in Israel, she says.
According to a spokesman for the Vietnamese Embassy in Tel Aviv, there are 150-200 refugees and their descendants still living in Israel. Huynh adds that more than half of the original Vietnamese refugees have left Israel, mostly for Europe and North America, where they were reunited with their extended families.
“I think the main motivation for leaving was to connect to a bigger community in Paris, Los Angeles and San Francisco,” Duki Dror, the film’s director, tells The Times of Israel. “They would like to preserve their cultural continuity and here it’s hard to do.”
Of the refugees who stayed in Israel, most live in or near Jaffa and Bat Yam. As part of her research, Huynh approached 32 families — over 150 people — with a request to fill out the questionnaire she had designed; only 34 agreed.
Eight of 25 second-generation refugees Huynh interviewed said they worked in the food preparation industry, many at Asian-themed restaurants, while others worked in factories and some first-generation women worked as hotel chambermaids.
Out of 34 people surveyed (both first- and second-generation), 14 had only primary education, while 13 also had some secondary education and five attended college (three in Israel and two in Vietnam). Sixteen were Buddhist, seven were Catholic, 10 claimed to follow no religion and one had converted to Judaism.
In a recent article in Ynet, Vaan Nguyen said she herself is undergoing a Reform conversion to Judaism. One scene in Duki Dror’s film shows the kind of attention Vietnamese-Israelis attract even when they are behaving like everyone else.
Here, Vaan accompanies her family to the IDF induction center where her 18-year-old sister, Tihu, is about to join the army. Hundreds of tearful parents are sending off their children and the Nguyen family is no exception.
“Where are you from? “ the induction soldier asks Tihu.
“From Vietnam,” she says in unaccented Hebrew.
“You must have made aliyah [immigrated] a long time ago?”
“Aliyah? I was born here.”
“Are you the first Vietnamese person to join the army?
“No, there have been others.”
Then Tihu asks sheepishly, “Can I change my name?”
Sabine Huynh is all too familiar with the feeling of extra scrutiny in a country where people of East Asian descent comprise a tiny percentage of the population. “People constantly mistake me for a Filipino, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Korean…(sigh).”
In the film, Vaan Nguyen describes the ordeal a simple trip to the grocery store could be. “I want to go to the grocery store without people invading my privacy. Stop asking me questions because something about me is suspicious or because you think I’m fascinating,” she declares.
“Enough with the interrogations and the expectation that I will politely respond that I was born in Israel, that my parents came as Vietnamese refugees in 1979 when the late Menachem Begin, as a humanitarian gesture, decided to absorb some boat people out of a historical Jewish identification with the conditions of persecution and exile.”
She goes on: “No, I am not Jewish. No, I don’t know if I’ll convert or if my children will be circumcised. Yes, I am equally sorry for every human being that died in the last intifada. I don’t deny the Holocaust.
I have no idea how to tell the difference between Chinese, Japanese, Thai and Korean people. No, I don’t think my eyes are slanted because I ate rice every day as a child…No, I am not related to Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan.”
“Now will you please just let me live in peace?” In her paper, Huynh writes that the Vietnamese refugee community has mixed feelings about attention from the broader society.
“Their existence here was born from an Israeli prime minister’s initiative, but [the community’s] people, after receiving Israeli citizenship, were almost completely forgotten, to the point that they are now constantly mistaken for foreign workers from Asia.
Moreover, since they have mixed feelings about that, they do not want any attention drawn to themselves. ‘If they forgot us, then let it be, let us be forgotten for good,’ was a sentence I heard often.”
An encounter in a Chinese restaurant - Determined to interview Vietnamese refugees, this reporter discovered a restaurant in Bat Yam that was described on the Internet as “the best Chinese restaurant you’ve never heard of,” owned by a husband-and-wife team of Vietnamese refugees.
Bat Yam is as shabby as Tel Aviv is fashionable but the Pek-Hai Chinese restaurant, located near the beach, has retro-1980s decor and a hipster clientele. Asked if he could be interviewed, a 50-ish Vietnamese man smoking outside said, “No, I am just a cook, go inside and talk to the management.”
Inside, a woman who appeared to be his wife, said in fluent Hebrew, “No, my Hebrew is not good enough.”
Why do you think people in the Vietnamese community are so reluctant to be interviewed?
The woman smiles and shrugs.
Is it because you want to be left in peace?
The woman nods, a glint of assent in her eye, then looks away. The conversation is over.
A peaceful life. In Dror’s film, archival footage shows a Jewish Agency teacher lecturing the refugees on their new life in Israel.
“I ask a question,” he says in Yiddish-inflected English. “What can you do here? If you want to be honest citizens and you want to join us in our peaceful life here, you have to learn maybe new ways of living, new ways of behavior. And try to work honestly wherever it is possible, to enable your families a good, peaceful life.”
Working hard and living peacefully is more or less what the refugees did. According to Huynh, the refugees she met worked an average of 10 hours a day, six days a week. Vaan Nguyen describes how her parents spent a lot of time working while she was growing up.
“My parents weren’t at home a lot and so what I got from my childhood was Israeliness. As much as they tried to make me Vietnamese, they didn’t succeed. Well, maybe a bit.”
There is a thread of sadness that runs through the documentary, the heartbreak of immigrant parents watching their children grow up with foreign ideas, habits and aspirations.
At the same time, the children feel torn between embracing the new culture and feeling rejected by it, while wanting to reject it in return out of loyalty to their parents.
In fact, the State of Israel was founded by people who faced a dilemma similar to Vaan Nguyen’s. Modern Hebrew writers like Micha Yosef Berdichevsky and Yosef Chaim Brenner had left the shtetl but couldn’t feel at home in Israel either.
Berdichevsky wrote, “If God [leads a person] to wander far from the city of their birth, the land of their forefathers into exile, they will open their eyes in the new place and look around but in their heart they will always carry the memory of their father and mother for the rest of their life.
Whatever happens to them, the air of their homeland will rest in the secret places of their soul, like the light of a new moon..and whoever is not this way, who can easily throw off the majestic feelings of their youth, is not a creature of God.”
Among second-generation Vietnamese Israelis, writes Huynh, there are various coping strategies: some assimilate, some emigrate and a minority express loyalty to their Vietnamese roots by marrying spouses from Vietnam and speaking Vietnamese at home.
But when a community is so small, assimilation is almost inevitable. That’s why Begin’s absorption of a mere 360 Vietnamese refugees (out of a total of 2 million worldwide) may or may not be a test case for welcoming future asylum seekers. Assimilation is painful, perhaps not for the host culture, but for the people pressured to give up a way of life passed down for generations.
In the meantime, Israel’s tiny Vietnamese minority is not keen on talking to reporters. “I think the Vietnamese community aren’t publicity hounds,” Duki Dror, the film’s director tells the Times of Israel. “They’re low-key. Also, they feel more and more Israeli, so they don’t all of a sudden want to talk about how they are different.
Refugees are an issue that is controversial. On the one hand they would probably say, ‘Of course [they should be let in], that’s how millions of Vietnamese were saved and we contribute to society.’ On the other hand they don’t want to take a position against the state or the people who are opposed to bringing Syrian refugees here.”
As for the community itself, a handful have given interviews to Hebrew media. Vaan Nguyen herself gave an indication of her feelings in a recent article she wrote in Ynet.
“Whenever there is a humanitarian crisis somewhere, I get calls from various media outlets asking to interview me about the refugee experience. I don’t feel like a refugee. I’m the daughter of refugees.”
Nevertheless, she writes, “compassion has no race and Bibi [Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu] will only enhance his resume if he absorbs a few hundred refugees who will not change Israel’s demographic balance one iota. My family is not thriving here, but they have hope and a future. It’s all relative: at least we’re alive.”
https://www.timesofisrael.com/35-years-on-where-are-israels-vietnamese-refugees/
There were two main refugee camps in Malaysia from 1975 to 2005, both of which were small and meant to house around 4,500 people. The Pulau Bidong camp (where the Nguyen family resided for six months) was only 1 square kilometer in area and housed approximately 18,000 Vietnamese refugees by January of 1979.
After the Nguyens made their journey to the United States, that number continued to grow, reaching a population of almost 40,000 by June. It was estimated to be the most heavily populated place in the world at that time.
Health care and disease control in the Malaysian refugee camps were limited. Many refugees suffered from lack of food and water, while others faced the shadow of malaria and other deadly diseases.
Those who had made the treacherous journey from Vietnam and other Southeast Asian countries were often sick upon arrival at the camps, where their health only got worse due to overcrowded conditions.
The Nguyen children had traveled with their grandmother on the boat to Malaysia, but her aging body could not withstand the brutal conditions of the camp. The family never talked much about the camp experience, except to say how awful it was.
Open Arms in Iowa logoWhen the United States first opened its arms to Southeast Asian refugees in 1975, Iowa Gov. Robert Ray—along with five other U.S. governors—visited China to learn more about the refugee crisis.
In an interview about the trip, Gov. Ray describes how he arranged a visit to Thailand, where there were many Cambodian refugees who had been driven from their country. “Pol Pot was murdering thousands and thousands of people—killing them. It was genocide in its true sense and people were escaping,” Ray said.
“And so after our trip to China we did make that visit to Thailand. And there were two camps that we went to. But one is indelible in my thinking because it’s hard to ever forget thousands of people lying in a mud field, skin and bones, no life, no activity, not enough food or almost not enough food to keep alive.
“I remember the person that was going to hand off this little girl to hold and she was probably four, five years old and her head just dropped and she was dead. Fifty to 100 people died in that mud camp a day and it was so awful. We left there just thinking how blessed we were and how much we should do or something we should do to help those poor people.”
Open Arms in Iowa is a five-part long-form story told in narrative form by Clare McCarthy, a 2016 Cornell College (Mount Vernon, Iowa) graduate and former IowaWatch staff writer.
McCarthy wrote this story for her senior project in narrative journalism when studying at Cornell. IowaWatch separated the complete story into five parts in order to publish it as a serial.
Jeanne’s parents met opposition from multiple angles. One of their close friends was a Vietnam veteran, a man who had been in the throes of the war and was very angry and hateful towards people from Vietnam.
Jeanne saw how this was difficult for her parents, since he and his family cut themselves off from any sort of communication with them after their sponsorship of the Nguyen family.
“There were people in the community who thought that it was really a dumb idea, and then there were people in the community who thought it was very good.
I think for the most part, my family focused on the people who were willing to help,” Jeanne said. Iowa’s support for refugees was fairly widespread at the time, with former Gov. Ray’s involvement spurring compassion and open arms.
In a 1975 interview with Iowa Pathways, an Internet Protocol Television station, Ray explained how proud he was of his state, highlighting the number of people who stepped forward and expressed their desire to help with the refugee crisis of the 1970s.
During his time as governor, Ray built his reputation as a humanitarian leader of refugee resettlement in Iowa, establishing Iowa as a leader in welcoming and assisting refugees in need.
Although Jeanne’s parents supported Ray’s initiative, they focused more on what they could do for the Nguyen family than advocating for the resettlement effort and policy.
“I mean, it was overwhelming just to handle what we were doing,” said Jeanne, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “I don’t know that they fought for the effort as much as just advocated within the community for what they were doing individually.”
After several years, one of the daughters in the Nguyen family wanted to get married. She had fallen in love with a man from Houston, Texas, the area where most of the family now lives because they found it a better fit for them.
However, she wanted to get married at the Nugyen family’s house in Iowa, out in the yard. “And she wanted to know who could do the wedding,” said Jeanne. “…it’s hard to ever forget thousands of people lying in a mud field, skin and bones, no life, no activity, not enough food or almost not enough food to keep alive.”
“So my mother talked to a pastor at church and you know, there’s this whole issue of okay, they’re not Christian, they’re Buddhists, can you do this wedding anyway? I don’t know if he was supposed to or not, but he did.
It was very interesting because he’s trying to bring in a traditional wedding ceremony, and they’re incorporating their Chinese and Vietnamese customs into it, and it was very interesting how that worked. But afterwards, we kind of all laughed about it. It was kind of funny at the time.”
Seeing this Iowa Historical Society photo in an Iowa newspaper that published a Clare McCarthy IowaWatch story prompted Jeanne Buck Coburn to contact McCarthy.
The picture shows Vietnamese refugees gathered in Des Moines in the 1970s with Coburn’s parents, Eleanor and Wayne Buck of rural Melbourne, Iowa, who helped the refugees resettle in the state.
In the late 1970s, attitudes toward Indochinese refugees were mixed. Americans held divided opinions about whether these refugees should be allowed to resettle in the United States. In a 1975 Harris poll, 37 percent were in favor, 49 percent opposed, and 14 percent weren’t sure.
In 1979, a CBS News/New York Times poll reported that 62 percent of the American population opposed President Carter’s recent action to double the number of Indochinese refugees allowed into the United States.
These percentages are similar to reactions today toward the Syrian refugee crisis, with 53 percent of Americans opposed to accepting refugees and about 11 percent more only accepting Christian refugees from Syria.
The hostility surrounding refugee resettlement today is much similar to the reactions that existed in 1979, but individual and familial sponsors helped welcome a large number of refugees. Without Jeanne and her family’s help, the Nguyen family might never have made it out of refugee camps.
In the process of writing my article about Iowa’s current response to refugee resettlement, I interviewed Iowa Gov. Terry Branstad. My entire internship felt as if it revolved around this day—if I could come up with a story from what I asked the governor, I might be able to have my first in-depth investigative article published by the end of the summer.
While my weekly news quizzes and interviews with investigative journalists were teaching me a lot about researching and reporting, I wanted to feel like I had done something that made more of an impact, something that I could walk away with when I was done with the internship.
We went out to lunch beforehand in downtown Des Moines. Lyle Muller, the executive director of IowaWatch and my supervisor throughout the internship, acted as if it were a tradition to take his interns out to lunch on the day of the big interview with the governor.
The other intern who was with me seemed calm and collected, as if we were simply going to another day of work at the office. She was more experienced with professional interviews since she had worked in journalism for a few years at her school, and a trip to the Iowa State Capitol building in Des Moines to interview the governor of Iowa didn’t seem to phase her.
I, on the other hand, was silently trying to contain my nerves. I could feel the sticky humidity of mid-July heat settling on my shoulders as we stepped from the car, and a trail of light sweat trickled its way down my arm as we headed to the cool darkness of the restaurant.
I found myself picking at my food, trying desperately to act as if the Greek salad I had ordered held all the answers to my interview, and wishing we could stall time so that I might feel more confident.
I wasn’t normally this nervous for interviews when I was asking the questions, but I had spent several weeks brainstorming the appropriate questions to ask and had already established an intense feeling of connection to what I was hoping to write.
Before my experience with IowaWatch, I knew little about the number of refugees resettling in Iowa, but immediately became intrigued by one of investigative journalist Lee Rood’s articles in The Des Moines Register, which highlighted the increase in number of Burmese refugees entering the state.
What really grabbed my attention were the problems these refugees were having with resettlement due to their limited English-speaking capabilities. Many were sinking into depression due to acculturation stress and cultural bereavement, Rood’s reports said.
While there are certain programs in place to assist refugees with language learning and other services, the agencies often cannot keep up with the demand.
With only 15 minutes to interview Gov. Branstad, I made it my goal to ask him as much as I could about his role in the refugee resettlement process and whether he thought Iowa should be doing more to assist incoming refugees, hoping to draw parallels to Gov. Ray’s initiative in the 1970s.
I was curious about his own involvement since he had recently vetoed state legislation that would have granted funding for a small start-up refugee aid program in Polk County, telling reporters the proposal was too specific to one part of Iowa.
The interviews I had conducted with Iowans up to that point revealed certain skepticism about Branstad and the amount he was doing, particularly in comparison to Ray’s involvement 40 years previously. I wanted to see why this discrepancy existed, and what Gov. Branstad had to say about the influx of refugees coming into the state.
My anxiety stemmed more from the importance of the topic than my own ability to ask the questions—I wanted this story to get out there; I wanted the governor to give me answers I could work with and tie in with my other interviews. I wanted a good story.
Refugee assistance in Iowa is not the same as it was 40 years ago. State refugee services still exist but as part of the Iowa Department of Human Services and has been renamed the Bureau of Refugee Services. Federal grants that once supported assistance programs no longer exist.
Refugees speaking different dialects even in the same languages are adding pressure to state agencies whose workers are trying to help the refugees. And Iowans helping refugees from other countries say the state – and its governor – are not doing enough.
“There is always room to improve,” said Amy Doyle, a lawyer who works with a refugee resettlement agency in Des Moines. “It’s really a matter of providing state funding for the organizations (that assist refugees).”
Iowa Gov. Terry Branstad said more funding is needed, but from the federal government. “Unfortunately, these are complicated issues and there is not really an easy answer to it,” he said.
Another problem is giving refugees access to simple information and state services that exist, said Amy Doyle, with EMBARC, or the Ethnic Minorities of Burma Advocacy and Research Center.
“I mean they’re so grateful to have an apartment, but they don’t know how to use the oven, they don’t know how to use the stove, they don’t know how to get to the doctor’s office,” Doyle said. “These are people who, if we want them to thrive and succeed, we have to give them more than just a life preserver when they get here.”
http://iowawatch.org/2016/06/02/from-refugee-camp-to-iowa-plus-prepping-for-a-story-40-years-later/
Although this tiny island only had the capacity to accommodate for 4,500 refugees, however during some very ‘peak’ seasons, it once sheltered almost 40,000 people.
To ensure the better living condition, long houses were built with schools, workshops, post office, church, temple, tailors, hair salons, bakery, noodle shops, sundry shops, even disco and bar etc. as to serve the basic needs.
Conditions on Bidong were difficult. One visitor, Leo Cherne, called Bidong "Hell Isle." Refugees crowded onto the island "lived in makeshift huts two and three stories high made of salvaged timbers from wrecked boats, plastic sheets, tin cans, and corrugated iron sheets."
Latrines and wells were inadequate; tropical rainstorms sent rivers of filthy water through the camp; all food and clean water had to be imported from the mainland.
Water was rationed at one gallon per day per person. Doctors were abundant, but medicine was in short supply. Sanitation was nearly non-existent and hepatitis was rampant.
But the refugee population was well organized and many small businesses and an efficient food and water distribution system was set up. Aid organizations such as the Malaysian Red Crescent Society, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and many non-governmental organizations assisted the refugees.
An international volunteer staff of medical personnel tended to the refugee's health problems. Immigration officials from many countries visited the island to intervew refugees for resettlement abroad.
Food In the early years, food was scarce but eventually food was much more adequate: plenty of instant noodles, condensed milk, green bean, sugar, chicken, fish, and vegetables. In 1990, due to excessive supply of instant noodles, that were wasted, each person was given 5 packs of instant noodles per week instead of 7 packs.
Bidong had so many fishes around the island. They were also a main source of food to the refugees. Fresh (drinking) water was always an issue, which had to be transported from mainland by boat.
We called it Supplied Water. As people would stay longer for screening, this was the case for who arrived after March 14th, 1989, many wells were dug by the refugee to be used for bathe, cooking, and farming.
Refugees leaving the camp would sell their shacks to new arrivals or brokers from as little as US$20 to as high as US$400. Black market also thrived in the community. Local fishermen traded with several Vietnamese who were brave enough to swim out to the fishing boats, anchored some distance from the island.
Entertainment In the late 80s, a musical stage was set up next to longhouse B15. There were regular music festivals performed by the refugees and Malaysian musicians as well as UN, MRCS, Police Task Force personnel.
For entertainment, a weekly (musical or cultural) performance was held unless there was severe inclement weather. The Canadian Embassy provided a matching grant of RM20,000 for us to build the stage for the performances. (the MRCS matched the other half.)
Nevertheless, few structures are safe from the destructive action, such as an artificial boat besides the temple to commemorate those arrival on the island, statute of a father who pulls his beloved daughter out from the sea, cement memories with heart aching words inscribed, gravestones marking the burial plots etc. They stand like a mute reminder to the world.
https://refugeecamps.net/BidongStory.html
I was a minor at Bidong back then, and I’ve been back and forth to Bidong numerous times for nearly consecutive 10 years but never I heard anyone called Bidong as a “Hell Island “.
Totally agree with you about the harsh living conditions back then but not up near to the point that we would have lacked of food and water supplies daily. Nor haven’t had anyone died from starvation yet? So excuse the term “barely livable “!
Yet, majority of people were there for the same reason of seeking a FREEDOM, not for the economic comfort, and they better all knew that Bidong was just a transitional temporary place prior to their new horizon in the third world countries.
Last but least they all went through either horrible lethally piracy, tremendous oceanic typhoons, deadly starvation, lost of direction etc on their escapes, and such those things could have took their life away unremorsefully and irreversibly. Such and such, death or discomforting ? Which one is more superior and significant? You choose it!
On top of that, Bidong was still in a better condition than many refugee camps (Songkhla, Sikew, Panatikhom, etc) in Thailand in terms of water and food supplies, living environment, UHNCR services, etc you name them all!
I just wonder myself that for those who unhappily complained about the harsh living conditions in Bidong’s why did you not stay on a porch at where you were originally from so you could enjoy all the comforts? Why bothered to risk your life just to “exchange “ for a worse living condition in Bidong?
R.AGE, You guys are as movie makers and to especially document the history of Bidong’s , you must do better supportive researches to depict truly about Bidong, instead of listening to only few negative comments of ungrateful bidongers and hastily named Bidong as a HELL Island.
That was profusely not correct, not right, and not kind to Bidong Island itself, to many Bidongers, to the UHNCR , to MRC, and to the government of Malaysia! Shall it be more appropriate to name Bidong as the "HOPE ISLAND"; The Island of Survival, The Island of Hope, The Island of Freedom.
Your considerateness! P/s: per your statement Bidong was given a nickname as “Hell Island “, may you kindly direct me to that reference please!
I was a minor at Bidong back then, and I’ve been back and forth to Bidong numerous times for nearly consecutive 10 years but never I heard anyone called Bidong as a “Hell Island “.
Totally agree with you about the harsh living conditions back then but not up near to the point that we would have lacked of food and water supplies daily. Nor haven’t had anyone died from starvation yet?
So excuse the term “barely livable “! Yet, majority of people were there for the same reason of seeking a FREEDOM, not for the economic comfort, and they better all knew that Bidong was just a transitional temporary place prior to their new horizon in the third world countries.
Last but least they all went through either horrible lethally piracy, tremendous oceanic typhoons, deadly starvation, lost of direction etc on their escapes, and such those things could have took their life away unremorsefully and irreversibly. Such and such, death or discomforting ? Which one is more superior and significant? You choose it!
On top of that, Bidong was still in a better condition than many refugee camps (Songkhla, Sikew, Panatikhom, etc) in Thailand in terms of water and food supplies, living environment, UHNCR services, etc you name them all!
I just wonder myself that for those who unhappily complained about the harsh living conditions in Bidong’s why did you not stay on a porch at where you were originally from so you could enjoy all the comforts? Why bothered to risk your life just to “exchange “ for a worse living condition in Bidong?
R.AGE, You guys are as movie makers and to especially document the history of Bidong’s , you must do better supportive researches to depict truly about Bidong, instead of listening to only few negative comments of ungrateful bidongers and hastily named Bidong as a HELL Island.
That was profusely not correct, not right, and not kind to Bidong Island itself, to many Bidongers, to the UHNCR , to MRC, and to the government of Malaysia!
Shall it be more appropriate to name Bidong as the "HOPE ISLAND"; The Island of Survival, The Island of Hope, The Island of Freedom. Your considerateness! P/s: per your statement Bidong was given a nickname as “Hell Island “, may you kindly direct me to that reference please!
I am Malaysian, some of Malaysian bloggers tell stories about this island and the refugees, mostly they said it is tragic, loss for Malaysian and such a waste of time to help the Vietnamese refugees in that island.
But after I watch this documentary and the comments, I felt its not a great loss for us, because we/our Malaysia country had given people hope and second chance of life to many unfortunate people. It made us a better country with humane value that do good to others.
Beautifully said. It is a privilege to be able to help others, without expecting any thanks in return. R.AGE then you better change the title of it! Bidong is the Island of Hope!
We, the Vietnamese Boat People truly appreciate the help of Malaysia country tremendously, and we will never forget our lovely memorial island, BIDONG!
We came to Pulau Bidong in 1989 - 1991. Best time of my life, we were free, survived the sea and was just thankful to God to be alive. We were so innocent, didn't know how BIG the SEA was and came close to death. - MC 476 -
I was a minor at Bidong back then, and I’ve been back and forth to Bidong numerous times for nearly consecutive 10 years but never I heard anyone called Bidong as a “Hell Island “.
Totally agree with you about the harsh living conditions back then but not up near to the point that we would have lacked of food and water supplies daily. Nor haven’t had anyone died from starvation yet? So excuse the term “barely livable “!
Yet, majority of people were there for the same reason of seeking a FREEDOM, not for the economic comfort, and they better all knew that Bidong was just a transitional temporary place prior to their new horizon in the third world countries.
Last but least they all went through either horrible lethally piracy, tremendous oceanic typhoons, deadly starvation, lost of direction etc on their escapes, and such those things could have took their life away unremorsefully and irreversibly. Such and such, death or discomforting ? Which one is more superior and significant? You choose it!
On top of that, Bidong was still in a better condition than many refugee camps (Songkhla, Sikew, Panatikhom, etc) in Thailand in terms of water and food supplies, living environment, UHNCR services, etc you name them all!
I just wonder myself that for those who unhappily complained about the harsh living conditions in Bidong’s why did you not stay on a porch at where you were originally from so you could enjoy all the comforts? Why bothered to risk your life just to “exchange “ for a worse living condition in Bidong?
R.AGE, You guys are as movie makers and to especially document the history of Bidong’s , you must do better supportive researches to depict truly about Bidong, instead of listening to only few negative comments of ungrateful bidongers and hastily named Bidong as a HELL Island.
That was profusely not correct, not right, and not kind to Bidong Island itself, to many Bidongers, to the UHNCR , to MRC, and to the government of Malaysia!
Shall it be more appropriate to name Bidong as the "HOPE ISLAND"; The Island of Survival, The Island of Hope, The Island of Freedom. Your considerateness! P/s: per your statement Bidong was given a nickname as “Hell Island “, may you kindly direct me to that reference please!
Palau bidong Malaysia still in my memories never forget # MB 837
I am from Malaysia and my late grandfather used to supplied the cigarettes and foods to the Vietnamese refugees in Pulau Bidong back in 1980s.
Syazwan Wow sounds like a great story! How much of his experiences did you learn? And have you ever made the trip to Bidong?
R.AGE i always go to Pulau Bidong during weekend. Back in 80s, My grandfather used used to go fishing in Pulau Bidong. And he said some of the fishes will be distributed to Refugees, order from the Terengganu Red Crescent Authority. We live near the jetty to Pulau Bidong.
@Syazwan Your grandfather sounds like a kind and generous man to share the fishes with them. That's the spirit we need today. In the end .......IT ALL THANKS TO THE AMERICA.
Đổi sinh mạng đi tìm tự do. Xứng đáng. U guys all should thanks to malaysia goverment. Tai sao lai goi hell island. I was there in 83 pb 833. So sad memories.....but life go on.
"Thông báo rời đảo thông báo rời đảoooo Ngày mai em đi. Biển nhớ tên em gọi về. Gọi hồn liễu rủ lê thê. Gọi bờ cát trắng đêm khuya. Có ai là cô nhi sống trong gia đình Âu Cơ ko bà con? MB 796 từ tháng 5/1987 - tháng 11/1987....nhớ lại kỉ niệm vui thiệt ,khổ mà vui. Sáng đi hái dừa chiều ra biển ỉa....kkkkkk
The nickname of Hell Island was actually given by an international aid worker who visited the island, and was appalled by the conditions.
Don't be so quick to presume that the refugees are not appreciative. It's typical of many false narratives of refugees being demanding or ungrateful, which in this case is clearly untrue.
Nice documentary. But the title is not appropriate I think. Hell Island? When you lari dari peperangan, ke satu pulau yang aman.? You guys called it Pulau Neraka? Yes, it is crammed and blablabla, but it is better than stay at their home with all the war going on.
Thanks for the feedback, but that's how Pulau Bidong was often referred to back then. The conditions were really bad, with 45,000 people crammed into a space meant for < 5,000 people.
Yes, the island represented hope and freedom to a lot of the inhabitants, but we cannot ignore the reality of what happened. Life on the island - and the journey to get there - was hellish, and most historical accounts will corroborate this.
Oh.. It referred as Hell Island because it load with 45000 refugees in a space for 5000 refugees, I thought that people being slaughtered there every day. But Vietnam now is a better country and prosperous.
Still a communist country, violate human rights, no freedom of the press, no voting, you must be a rich communist vietnamese trolling. Hell Island? is that what the Vietnamese war survivors are calling Pulau Bidong? So ungrateful ..to say the least!
Jamil Atan Actually, it was a term coined by a foreign aid worker who visited the island. Most of the Bidong survivors are actually very grateful, as you can see in the comments here. But that doesn’t change the fact that conditions were terrible, and the journey there extremely treacherous.
Dont complain how bad the condition at particular moment cos you all were ready for it. At least malaysia let you stay there. I myself met you refugees from 1 big boat without food at a beach in DESARU we people bring food for all the refugees.
@Mokhtar Mustaffa It's not that they were complaining - they were simply telling us what the conditions were like back then - cos we asked!
That's what we're supposed to do as journalists. But it's just strange how so many Malaysians are so quick to see refugees as "ungrateful", when most of them are nothing but grateful to be alive.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiWuQRoXwMo
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