Migration was never supposed to be part of my story. My family had no history of exile, no whispered tales of escape, no relatives forced to start over in a foreign land. We had always been in Viet Nam. And yet, migration shaped me in ways I never expected – and only came to understand much later.
It was my father’s story that stayed with me.
In the early 1990s, tensions from the Sino-Vietnamese war still lingered. My father, an ethnic minority man living near the border between Viet Nam and China, watched as many of his childhood friends—of Chinese origin—were forced to leave. They fled, seeking asylum in third countries. Some managed to reach Hong Kong’s refugee camps, hoping to resettle in the UK or Canada. Others simply disappeared into the unknown.
For my father, watching them leave was painful. He had grown up with them, shared meals, laughter, and childhood dreams. And then, one by one, they were gone.
He couldn’t help but wonder: Should I go too?
Then came Ky, my father’s close friend. Ky wasn’t an ethnic Chinese refugee—he was just another young man, like my father, longing for a different future.
“Come with me,” Ky urged one evening. “There’s a boat leaving soon. Some of our friends made it to Hong Kong. Once we get to the camp, we’ll receive some support, and later, we’ll find a way to the UK.”
The idea gripped my father.
It was a path, uncertain but possible. A way out of hardship. The promise of a better life.
And so, he made up his mind.
He packed a small bag—just enough to carry light. He told my mother. He said goodbye to me, barely a year old at the time. Then, he set out for the border, ready to board the boat with Ky.
“It will be alright,” he reassured himself. “I speak Cantonese. I’ll manage.”
But as he neared the boat, doubt crept in.
What if the boat didn’t make it?
What if he never saw his wife again?
Who would take care of his baby daughter—me?
At the very last moment, he stepped back.
“I have my family here,” he told Ky. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go.”
Ky left. My father stayed.
That evening, instead of sailing toward an uncertain fate, my father returned home with a small green outfit he had bought for me—a silent gesture of the life he had chosen to stay for.
Years later, he would tell me, “It was the right decision.”
But migration isn’t always a choice.
For my father, it was. He had the power to turn back. But for many others—those with no home to return to, those forced into impossible decisions—there was no easy way out.
Ky ended up in a refugee camp in Hong Kong. He was later repatriated, unable to prove his story.
Some migrants get to choose their path. Others don’t.
But either way, migration shapes us—our perspectives, our choices, and our futures—forever.
Migration talks that matter 