In Vietnam, 32 years after my family fled, I didn’t find the sense of home I was expecting

The whir of motorcycles and the hum of overhead wires crackled through the air as the young man stepped carefully into the humid night. He looked up and down the alleyway, one of the many winding side streets that made up the labyrinth of the Cholon district in Saigon, Vietnam. Since the war, the nights had become increasingly uneasy, never knowing if police would come by and knock on your door to monitor your movements. Taking a few steps, he hesitated and looked back, locking eyes with a woman staring out of the window, her face browned from the sun and lined with worry. Afraid to draw attention with anything resembling a farewell, his father had already turned away, back to a veneer of normalcy. It was an unbearable but necessary risk to send their only son on a boat to escape a country ravaged by war, and in their final words, all they could choke out was a reminder to send a letter once he was safe. There would be no proper goodbye, only a final wave to his mother standing steadfast at the window before he walked away, empty-handed and the heavy burden of hope pounding in his ears.

Thirty-two years later, I would walk down the same alleyway, retracing the steps of my father.

Read the full article originally published in the Globe and Mail on May 30, 2023.