Tianne—a divorced mother of two children and a primary school teacher—had always been the cherished youngest daughter in her family. Her oldest sister had once lived comfortably, having married a much older Korean businessman. However, while their marriage had initially provided a sense of financial security, their life in Korea was far from the luxury that others imagined. Still, for Tianne’s mother, Korea symbolized an escape—a place where her daughter could leave behind the stigma of being a divorced woman, start fresh, and earn money more easily than in Viet Nam.
Tianne, however, had chosen a different path. She married for love, not wealth, to a local government officer—handsome but poor, as people would say. Love alone, however, could not sustain the realities of life. Bills piled up, dreams of wearing fine clothes and indulging in a comfortable lifestyle remained just that—dreams. The frustration of scraping by turned into resentment, and soon, their marriage crumbled under the weight of financial hardship. The divorce left her not just alone, but burdened by the same struggles she had hoped marriage would alleviate.
With two children to raise and a desire for a more comfortable life, Tianne looked toward Korea as her mother naively believed it might be a good escape for her. Her Korean brother-in-law introduced her to a friend, a well-off but older man, who was looking for a wife.
A new husband in Korea—older, yes, but financially stable—seemed like the perfect solution. Tianne imagined herself living in a modern high-rise, sipping coffee in trendy boutiques, free from the financial burdens of her past. He would provide, and she would finally be able to live the life she envied.
Determined, she quit her teaching job to focus on learning Korean. The marriage was arranged swiftly. “You can go to this town—everything will be taken care of,” she was told. And so, in a matter of a few meetings, she was married on paper. It felt surreal, almost too easy. She was swept into the excitement, posting pictures online, announcing her engagement with pride. Her Facebook became a timeline of her new beginning—her achievements in Korean language courses, well-wishes from friends, and messages of admiration from those who saw her as someone who had ‘made it.’
But dreams don’t always translate into reality. Tianne’s visa application was rejected—not once, but twice. The first rejection was brushed off—perhaps a small mistake, something the paperwork could fix. But when the second came, panic crept in. Her husband, who had already sent her thousands of dollars for her Korean classes, living expenses, and other fees, started questioning her. The warm, promising future she had envisioned started to shake.
Then, the truth surfaced: Tianne had a hidden financial burden—a staggering $50,000 debt with the bank, placing her on the blacklist of bad debtors. This meant she was ineligible for a visa.
Her husband’s messages turned cold. “You scammed me!” he shouted over the phone, his voice no longer kind but filled with betrayal. He accused her of planning this all along—of using him for his money. The conversations turned from gentle reassurances to accusations. His patience ran out. “This marriage is over,” he declared. And just like that, it was done.
The money he had sent, once a sign of his commitment, was now evidence of his bitterness. Friends who had congratulated her now whispered behind her back. Some were sympathetic, others shook their heads. “She flew too close to the sun,” they murmured. Tianne found herself alone, again—but this time, with a shattered dream and an even heavier weight to carry.
Marriage migration is often seen as an opportunity, a means to escape poverty and hardship. But stories like Tianne’s reveal a different reality—one where expectations clash with harsh immigration policies, financial burdens, and unforeseen consequences.
For some, marriage is a pathway to a better life. For others, it becomes a trap—one where they are left abandoned, indebted, and facing a future more uncertain than before.
This raises critical questions: Should marriage be used as a migration strategy? What protections exist for those who enter such agreements? And who is responsible when individuals, desperate for security, are left with nothing but broken dreams?
Migration talks that matter 