Vietnamese Refugee Experiences
For further information, please click on each individual's photo in the slideshow
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On April 23, 1975, the first planeload of Vietnamese refugees landed at Anderson Air Force Base in Guam. As the first American processing center following the end of the Vietnam War, Guam was only expected to temporarily shelter 13,000 Vietnamese refugees. However, between April to November of 1975, more than 112,000 Vietnamese refugees were processed in Guam in what became known as Operation New Life. The Vietnamese refugees who temporarily lived in Tent City, Camp Asan, Tin City, and other refugee camps around Guam, came from many different walks of life. While some were young children and others were graduate students, all of the Vietnamese refugees in Guam were trying to navigate the challenges of their forced displacement. Chân Trời Mới, a Vietnamese-language newspaper written by and for Vietnamese refugees on Guam during Operation New Life, attests to Vietnamese refugees’ practices of place-making and community sustainment in the camps. Here are some Vietnamese refugees’ reflections on their experiences on Guam during Operation New Life.
Hanh Bui
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Hanh Bui left Vietnam with her family as refugees when she was just 8 years old. Today, she is a children’s book author based in Virginia. Click on the photograph to hear Hanh share her memories of Guam and Operation New Life with Dr. Evyn Lê Espiritu Gandhi. This photograph was taken at Fort Indiantown Gap in Pennsylvania, where Hanh and her family stayed for six months after leaving Guam. Hanh is on the right while her relative Hien is on the left.
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Bùi Văn Phú
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In 1975, Bùi Văn Phú was a law student and student activist at Saigon University. In the spring of 1975, Bui fled Vietnam by ship. Along with other refugees on Saigon II, an engineless boat, Bui made his way to Singapore and Subic Bay in the Philippines before arriving in Guam. After living in Guam for one week, Bui left to Pennsylvania via Fort Indiantown Gap. Since his resettlement, Bùi Văn Phú has worked in education, including a role as an educational consultant for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees in Southeast Asia. He is now a community college instructor and a freelance writer based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Here, you can read, in translation, his reflections on his time on Guam.
"We arrived in Guam on a blazing hot afternoon. Orote Point camp, also known as Tent City, was much larger than Subic Bay camp [in the Philippines], but devoid of trees. As the bus entered the parking lot, on both sides of the barbed wire fence there were people waiting. There were voices calling out to each other, asking for news of who made it and who did not, with many sad faces and shaking heads. After completing the admission procedures, since my cousin had a child he asked to be sheltered in an area with shade so his infant boy would not have to suffer from the burning sun. |
I was taken to a military tent. Upon opening the door, I saw a man sitting quietly on a cot with a sorrowful face. The tent was built on the ground with a dozen cots inside, but all were empty and there was only one person, with me now as the second. He asked where I came from; I replied from Subic Bay. He told me he was requesting to be repatriated.
I was surprised and asked him why he wanted to return home when he not had even arrived in the US yet. He was a navy official who vacated Vietnam hastily, leaving behind his wife and children, and now he missed his family so much that he wanted to return. He introduced himself as the songwriter Trường Sa.* His name immediately reminded me of a song that was quite popular on Saigon radio. I asked if he wrote the lyrics that Lệ Thu sang: “The street has been deserted since you left. Afternoons swinging with sorrow footsteps…” He claimed to be the author.
His eyes were red. His face was full of worries and desperation. He asked me, do I intend to return home to Vietnam? I said I also came alone, my parents and siblings left behind, but I wanted to go to see what the US was like, not to return."
I was surprised and asked him why he wanted to return home when he not had even arrived in the US yet. He was a navy official who vacated Vietnam hastily, leaving behind his wife and children, and now he missed his family so much that he wanted to return. He introduced himself as the songwriter Trường Sa.* His name immediately reminded me of a song that was quite popular on Saigon radio. I asked if he wrote the lyrics that Lệ Thu sang: “The street has been deserted since you left. Afternoons swinging with sorrow footsteps…” He claimed to be the author.
His eyes were red. His face was full of worries and desperation. He asked me, do I intend to return home to Vietnam? I said I also came alone, my parents and siblings left behind, but I wanted to go to see what the US was like, not to return."
Ngoc Minh le
Ngoc Minh Le left Vietnam and was processed in Guam during Operation New Life when she was nine years old. As an adult, she has been a longtime advocate for the empowerment of Asian and Vietnamese communities in the US. She was a founding Board member of Asian American LEAD, a non-profit organization which supports low income and underserved Asian American youth. Le also served on the Maryland Governor’s Commission on Asian American Affairs during the O’Malley administration. Currently, she is a member of the Kennedy Center Community Advisory Board and Advisory Council member of AALEAD. She owns her own business as an Empowerment/Business Coach, helping to empower women in business, civic engagement, and their personal lives. Ngoc Minh Le is married and has two children. She also has a friendly dog called Tabasco. Here are some of her reflections about her time on Guam.
"We left Subic Bay on a military plane: one of those that opens up its rear rather than having doors on the side like commercial jets. I had never been on an airplane before, but I have seen them on TV – the commercial ones, so I knew this was different. For starters, instead of rows of seats, there were two benches facing each other and our family piled in, with nine of us taking a good amount of the space on one bench. The seat belts attached to the walls, so we were belted in by our parents.
I didn’t remember much about the landing, but we were eventually bused to a resort that seemed to have been taken over for the use of refugee processing. I was excited that we were actually given beds instead of cots and we had actual rooms. I think our family was given two or three rooms for the nine of us, so though crowded, we thought this was heaven!
The food was very good as well. Much better than in Subic Bay. We had ice cream almost every day of the week! My siblings and I were very happy with this added perk.
We celebrated our first 4th of July in Guam. I remembered the preparations the soldiers made for the celebration. The energy and excitement! There was fried chicken and hotdogs handed out and you could get as much as you like. There was also ice cream of course! At night, there were fireworks!
The most distinctive memory I have of Guam is the beach near the resort. We could go swimming there and it was so much fun! Often there would be movies shown outdoors and we would sit on the blanket or just on the grass amongst the other refugees. I remembered one movie where people would turn into snakes. It gave me nightmares for quite a few days. I think Guam was overrun by snakes at some point, and to this nine-year-old, it made perfect sense.
In Guam, we had more comfort, so it lent a bit more normalcy. My mother sold her jewelry in order to have money to take the weekly bus the camp allowed to go to a market in town. She would normally come back with basic medicine, vitamins, and treats for us. This act of being able to provide for the family also made the refugee experience feel more bearable. We were not at the complete mercy of the government.
When it was time to leave Guam, I was very sad but curious as to what the next adventure would hold. We were heading to Camp Pendleton, California next and getting ready to be resettled into an American community. That road ultimately took us to Baltimore County, Maryland, where our family has lived until the present day."
I didn’t remember much about the landing, but we were eventually bused to a resort that seemed to have been taken over for the use of refugee processing. I was excited that we were actually given beds instead of cots and we had actual rooms. I think our family was given two or three rooms for the nine of us, so though crowded, we thought this was heaven!
The food was very good as well. Much better than in Subic Bay. We had ice cream almost every day of the week! My siblings and I were very happy with this added perk.
We celebrated our first 4th of July in Guam. I remembered the preparations the soldiers made for the celebration. The energy and excitement! There was fried chicken and hotdogs handed out and you could get as much as you like. There was also ice cream of course! At night, there were fireworks!
The most distinctive memory I have of Guam is the beach near the resort. We could go swimming there and it was so much fun! Often there would be movies shown outdoors and we would sit on the blanket or just on the grass amongst the other refugees. I remembered one movie where people would turn into snakes. It gave me nightmares for quite a few days. I think Guam was overrun by snakes at some point, and to this nine-year-old, it made perfect sense.
In Guam, we had more comfort, so it lent a bit more normalcy. My mother sold her jewelry in order to have money to take the weekly bus the camp allowed to go to a market in town. She would normally come back with basic medicine, vitamins, and treats for us. This act of being able to provide for the family also made the refugee experience feel more bearable. We were not at the complete mercy of the government.
When it was time to leave Guam, I was very sad but curious as to what the next adventure would hold. We were heading to Camp Pendleton, California next and getting ready to be resettled into an American community. That road ultimately took us to Baltimore County, Maryland, where our family has lived until the present day."
Wendy Tuyet Tougher
Wendy Tuyet Tougher left Vietnam by fishing boat in May 1975 when she was eleven years old. After Operation New Life, she was adopted by an American military family in Guam, though she later reunited with her birth family in high school. She is married to her high school sweetheart whom she met in Guam, retired Colonel Michael Tougher, and they have three children who are all serving in the US military. She currently lives in Jacksonville, Florida. In the photo above, Wendy Tuyet Tougher (right) is with her older sister, Kelley Phuong Miller (left) in Guam, about six months after they left Vietnam and were adopted.
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"As my eyes scanned the sparkling vast ocean, I felt the blazing sun sting my skin. Thoughts of the war hung over me. The war between North and South Vietnam came to an end in early May of 1975. The villages south of Saigon were bombed. The bombs pierced our ears with mighty booms. The ground shook violently, buildings crumbled all around and civilians were being shot at. The cries and screams of the victims of war, mostly women and children, forced me to take my eyes from the sea back to the land we just left. My mom told me not to look back yet, but I was compelled to look over my shoulder. Though I was not physically wounded like many others, I too began to scream and cry. When the tears were gone, my heart wept. The faces I saw, twisted in agony, painted with blood, streaked by tears; sketched an ageless image in my mind.
The tragedy of war was upon us all. Every cell in my body shook with fright. Every organ in my body ached for us, the victims of war. At the age of 11, I looked in the faces of my people and saw a history of human suffering. The sound of sorrow was recorded in my mind. The deepest feeling of hopelessness, loneliness, and despair pressed heavily on me as I became separated from my family. The weaving of people in and out of our path caused my mom to look back to check on us. Looking up at her panicked-stricken face, fear took hold of me. Within the blink of an eye, my family scattered into the crowd. Amid the chaos and all the panicked people, I recognized a face. Spontaneously, my sister and I extended our hands towards each other. I gripped her fingers around mine. I was not going to let her go. With our eyes focused on a fishing boat, we pushed our way forward.
It was a clear, hot, sunny day in May when I left Vietnam on a small fishing boat. The boat, about 20 feet long and 9 feet wide, was shelter for the fortunate 30 or more of us aboard. Sitting on the deck of the boat, I felt a new danger hovering over me. The ocean did not seem peaceful and safe as it had appeared when I stood on the shore and gazed out. The ocean had become the new enemy I had to fight for survival. Its power greater than I had ever imagined was possible. The realization of being swallowed up and capsized by the next wave became increasingly clear when the powerless boat nosedived into wave after wave. Gripping the edge of the boat to keep from being flung into the ocean, a feeling of total insignificance washed over me. Would the ocean shed her tears for us if we were pulled under today? Or would she continue with her fierce and violent rhythm without regard for our fate? If we disappeared, nothing would change, nothing at all. The sun would not flinch. The sky would not weep. The sea would not be still in sorrow for us. The massive and continuous waves seemed to gain more and more strength with each rise and fall. The ocean’s endless energy left me desperate and without hope for survival.
Death would have been the easiest way out. Deep within me, behind the physical and emotional pain, underneath my drowning hopes, my soul begged for a chance to live. As my second day on the boat began, my body convulsed. Slumped over, I began to shake uncontrollably. While the relentless sun berated me, I drifted in and out of consciousness. The thrusting and hurling of the boat made my head dizzy and stomach turn. My stomach muscles contracted into a single hard knot every time I lean over the rail to throw-up. The movement of my body combined with the sickness and pain reminded me I was still alive.
I prayed for life, I prayed for the waves to calm, and I prayed for food. What I prayed for most on that third day of my journey was water. By the end of the second day, our boat was out of drinking water. The nauseating cramps and pain of not eating were a luxury compared to how I felt when my body could not have the water it needed. The unquenchable craving for the taste of water was so powerful, it began to consume my sanity. Reaching down to the salty ocean water, I wanted to dip my body in it and allow myself the dangerous and yet enticing comfort of letting go of life. Looking into the vast, never-ending ocean, I thought I saw a happier existence underneath its surface. I closed my eyes and felt myself fading into the dark blue water. For the first time on my journey, I felt nothing. No pain, no sorrow, no weight on my body. The feeling of nothingness lured me to let go and end this misery. Letting out what I thought was my last breath, I felt my body going limp. At last, my 11 years of existence were coming to an end. What happens to me when I die? I wondered about heaven. I wanted to go to heaven. Relatives had told me my dad was in heaven and he watches over us. Can you really see us, dad? Can you ask God to help us?
I searched my mind for peaceful closure. Looking again at my mom, two sisters, and three brothers, I felt their sufferings and hopelessness. Seeing my family struggle to survive in this most dreadful state brings about another layer of heartache. My sadness plunged to a deeper level yet. It had been a rough, bumpy life with war, death, and famine but my family always stuck together and surrounded each other with love and protection. The thoughts of my family caused a reaction in me. My eyes shot open. No, I will not close my eyes and slip away. I must fight to stay alive for them, for me. I do not want to die. I wanted more from my life. I wanted to hold my mom’s hand. I wanted to go to school someday and learn to read and write. I wanted to play and laugh. I wanted just a little bit of something to eat and a glass of water to drink. I wanted to get off this forsaken boat. I wanted to live.
Slowly, the horizon lit up with colorful layers of peach, pink, and light blue. A new day arrived with assurance of another scorching day. There was nothing to do but watch for shadows as the sun took its time crossing the sky. At last, a gray cloud crossed our path. As it approached the boat, a rush of excitement descended on us. Adults yelled instructions to the kids on how to catch the raindrops. Shouts of, “Open your mouth!”, “Cup your hands!”, “Pull out your shirt to catch the rain!” pierced the otherwise silent sky. The raindrops fell, so did the shouting. Everyone concentrated on catching the most raindrops. All too soon, the gray cloud moved away, leaving us behind to lick away each raindrop. The moment of satisfaction and hope drifted out of our reach again. With a burdened heart, I helplessly watched the gray cloud leave.
The boat drifted aimlessly with the splash of each wave. First, there was no food, then no water, and then there was no fuel. Nobody prepared for a long journey. Having our backs to the ocean and facing the approaching army, we took shelter where we could. A small fishing boat had become our promise for survival. Not realizing we would be chased into the sea; we took no provisions with us. Now there was nothing for us to do but pray and wait for gray clouds to come our way.
Like a risen sun with all the glory, a ship rose from the horizon. My heart stirred with joy and hope. I cried, for my heart needed to shed the pain and misery. At last, I smiled, then joined the people in waving and yelling. As the ship closed in on us, I could not believe a boat of this size and strength existed. There were times, in my disbelief, I feared the approaching ship. I feared the ship was simply my imagination playing tricks on me. I feared the ship would turn away from us. I feared the ship would harm us. What if the ship did not want us? Again and again, I looked up and studied the expressions of the adults to reassure myself the ship was real and coming to rescue us.
Soon the gigantic ship hovered over us. The big black letters read, US Navy. A man in uniform stood on the deck and spoke to us through a megaphone. I did not understand him, but I knew he had come to help us. A man swooped me up and helped me up a net of ropes onto the ship. Days later, we arrived at Apra Harbor on the island of Guam, a territory of the United States of America."
The tragedy of war was upon us all. Every cell in my body shook with fright. Every organ in my body ached for us, the victims of war. At the age of 11, I looked in the faces of my people and saw a history of human suffering. The sound of sorrow was recorded in my mind. The deepest feeling of hopelessness, loneliness, and despair pressed heavily on me as I became separated from my family. The weaving of people in and out of our path caused my mom to look back to check on us. Looking up at her panicked-stricken face, fear took hold of me. Within the blink of an eye, my family scattered into the crowd. Amid the chaos and all the panicked people, I recognized a face. Spontaneously, my sister and I extended our hands towards each other. I gripped her fingers around mine. I was not going to let her go. With our eyes focused on a fishing boat, we pushed our way forward.
It was a clear, hot, sunny day in May when I left Vietnam on a small fishing boat. The boat, about 20 feet long and 9 feet wide, was shelter for the fortunate 30 or more of us aboard. Sitting on the deck of the boat, I felt a new danger hovering over me. The ocean did not seem peaceful and safe as it had appeared when I stood on the shore and gazed out. The ocean had become the new enemy I had to fight for survival. Its power greater than I had ever imagined was possible. The realization of being swallowed up and capsized by the next wave became increasingly clear when the powerless boat nosedived into wave after wave. Gripping the edge of the boat to keep from being flung into the ocean, a feeling of total insignificance washed over me. Would the ocean shed her tears for us if we were pulled under today? Or would she continue with her fierce and violent rhythm without regard for our fate? If we disappeared, nothing would change, nothing at all. The sun would not flinch. The sky would not weep. The sea would not be still in sorrow for us. The massive and continuous waves seemed to gain more and more strength with each rise and fall. The ocean’s endless energy left me desperate and without hope for survival.
Death would have been the easiest way out. Deep within me, behind the physical and emotional pain, underneath my drowning hopes, my soul begged for a chance to live. As my second day on the boat began, my body convulsed. Slumped over, I began to shake uncontrollably. While the relentless sun berated me, I drifted in and out of consciousness. The thrusting and hurling of the boat made my head dizzy and stomach turn. My stomach muscles contracted into a single hard knot every time I lean over the rail to throw-up. The movement of my body combined with the sickness and pain reminded me I was still alive.
I prayed for life, I prayed for the waves to calm, and I prayed for food. What I prayed for most on that third day of my journey was water. By the end of the second day, our boat was out of drinking water. The nauseating cramps and pain of not eating were a luxury compared to how I felt when my body could not have the water it needed. The unquenchable craving for the taste of water was so powerful, it began to consume my sanity. Reaching down to the salty ocean water, I wanted to dip my body in it and allow myself the dangerous and yet enticing comfort of letting go of life. Looking into the vast, never-ending ocean, I thought I saw a happier existence underneath its surface. I closed my eyes and felt myself fading into the dark blue water. For the first time on my journey, I felt nothing. No pain, no sorrow, no weight on my body. The feeling of nothingness lured me to let go and end this misery. Letting out what I thought was my last breath, I felt my body going limp. At last, my 11 years of existence were coming to an end. What happens to me when I die? I wondered about heaven. I wanted to go to heaven. Relatives had told me my dad was in heaven and he watches over us. Can you really see us, dad? Can you ask God to help us?
I searched my mind for peaceful closure. Looking again at my mom, two sisters, and three brothers, I felt their sufferings and hopelessness. Seeing my family struggle to survive in this most dreadful state brings about another layer of heartache. My sadness plunged to a deeper level yet. It had been a rough, bumpy life with war, death, and famine but my family always stuck together and surrounded each other with love and protection. The thoughts of my family caused a reaction in me. My eyes shot open. No, I will not close my eyes and slip away. I must fight to stay alive for them, for me. I do not want to die. I wanted more from my life. I wanted to hold my mom’s hand. I wanted to go to school someday and learn to read and write. I wanted to play and laugh. I wanted just a little bit of something to eat and a glass of water to drink. I wanted to get off this forsaken boat. I wanted to live.
Slowly, the horizon lit up with colorful layers of peach, pink, and light blue. A new day arrived with assurance of another scorching day. There was nothing to do but watch for shadows as the sun took its time crossing the sky. At last, a gray cloud crossed our path. As it approached the boat, a rush of excitement descended on us. Adults yelled instructions to the kids on how to catch the raindrops. Shouts of, “Open your mouth!”, “Cup your hands!”, “Pull out your shirt to catch the rain!” pierced the otherwise silent sky. The raindrops fell, so did the shouting. Everyone concentrated on catching the most raindrops. All too soon, the gray cloud moved away, leaving us behind to lick away each raindrop. The moment of satisfaction and hope drifted out of our reach again. With a burdened heart, I helplessly watched the gray cloud leave.
The boat drifted aimlessly with the splash of each wave. First, there was no food, then no water, and then there was no fuel. Nobody prepared for a long journey. Having our backs to the ocean and facing the approaching army, we took shelter where we could. A small fishing boat had become our promise for survival. Not realizing we would be chased into the sea; we took no provisions with us. Now there was nothing for us to do but pray and wait for gray clouds to come our way.
Like a risen sun with all the glory, a ship rose from the horizon. My heart stirred with joy and hope. I cried, for my heart needed to shed the pain and misery. At last, I smiled, then joined the people in waving and yelling. As the ship closed in on us, I could not believe a boat of this size and strength existed. There were times, in my disbelief, I feared the approaching ship. I feared the ship was simply my imagination playing tricks on me. I feared the ship would turn away from us. I feared the ship would harm us. What if the ship did not want us? Again and again, I looked up and studied the expressions of the adults to reassure myself the ship was real and coming to rescue us.
Soon the gigantic ship hovered over us. The big black letters read, US Navy. A man in uniform stood on the deck and spoke to us through a megaphone. I did not understand him, but I knew he had come to help us. A man swooped me up and helped me up a net of ropes onto the ship. Days later, we arrived at Apra Harbor on the island of Guam, a territory of the United States of America."
Hoa V. Nguyen
Dr. Hoa V. Nguyen and his family left Vietnam in April 1975 when he was a young child. During Operation New Life, they stayed at Camp Asan in Guam for two weeks, transferred to Camp Pendleton, California, and finally resettled in Fort Walton Beach, Florida with their sponsor, US Air Force Colonel Thornton Peck. Retired Lieutenant Colonel with the US Air Force and retired State Air Surgeon first returned to Guam when the Air Force, which sponsored his college tuition. He had a choice to serve in either Guam, Hawai‘i, or Korea. He fell in love with the island again, and once he had earned his medical degree, Nguyen returned to Guam in 1995 to work in a medical clinic. In 2005, he opened the American Medical Center, which serves tens of thousands of patients. Overall Nguyen is grateful for the opportunities Operation New Life gave his family, and is happy to able to give back to the community in Guam. Every Sunday he likes to go fishing on his boat, enjoying the Pacific waters.
Nghia M. Vo
Nghia M. Vo was processed through Guam as a refugee after the Fall of Saigon. He eventually settled in New London, Connecticut. He received his MD from Saigon University in 1973. Since arriving in the US, he did his residency in Surgery at St Francis Hospital and New York Medical College. As an independent researcher, Dr. Vo has written more than 10 books about Vietnamese history. He is the founder of the non-profit, Saigon, Arts, Culture and Education institute. He currently works as a Health Research Scientist at the Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality and lives in Leesburg, Virginia.
Header image from The Sunday News Magazine (Guam) June 1, 1975. From the collection of the Richard F. Taitano Micronesian Area Research Center.
Nam Kim
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Legacies of Displacement and “Operation New Life”
Nam C. Kim (based on recollections of Hien Vu Kim and Chong S. Kim) This account details the experiences of my mother and father, respectively Hien Vu Kim and Chong S. Kim, as told to me many times since my childhood. Their memories of Guam are simultaneously powerful, vivid, and hazy, owing to the distressing conditions of our sudden departure from Saigon. I was just a baby, and so my knowledge of these events comes from their recollections and a handful of black-and-white photographs. My parents and I fled Saigon on April 29, 1975 just as North Vietnamese forces took Saigon. My father was a photojournalist for the South Korean embassy, and so had press credentials and a camera as we desperately looked for a way out of a collapsing South Vietnam. Against a backdrop of chaos at the crowded gates of the USAID compound, Chong’s South Korean passport and papers won us coveted entry. Inside the compound, we found our way into a stairwell leading to the roof where American helicopters, part of Operation Frequent Wind, were ferrying people into the sky to destinations unknown. When it was our turn to frantically board our Huey, my parents were ordered to abandon much of their belongings, forcing them to heave suitcases into sea of materials strewn across the rooftop. There was no time to consider, rummage, or salvage. As the Huey lifted us, my mother suddenly realized with intense grief that her wedding dress was lost in the fray, left behind like so much, and so many, else. We carried precious few possessions out of the country. |
The crowded Huey bore us to the airport, where we huddled in dark passageways listening to distant explosions. Hours later we were ushered onto our next mode of transport, a Chinook chopper that carried us to the coast, ultimately landing on the USS Midway carrier. For days we lived in crammed spaces within the bowels of both the Midway and the USS Kimbro. Alongside countless other families, our first days outside of South Vietnam as stateless people were spent dealing with shock and limbo on the decks and cargo holds of these massive ships, subsisting on the kindness of American service personnel who fed us juice, cookies, and rice. Faced with a murky future, we were brought to the Philippines where we boarded a military cargo plane bound for Guam and Operation New Life.
We landed in Guam at night and a school bus greeted us at the airstrip to bear us to Orote Point. Along the way my parents saw bright lights of stores lining the streets. At Orote Point we moved into “Tent City,” where we lived with our bags constantly packed and ready to move. It was a transient life in a makeshift city. By day we sat idly in the sun, listening for announcements in case our tent number was called.
My mother carried me on short walks near the camp, exploring local Guamanian landscapes to break up the monotony of camp life. While walking past the local fire station, a firefighter asked my mother how she was doing. Lost in melancholic thought, she could not muster a reply, instead feeling tears well up. Thinking we were starving, he gave her canned food.
When our tent number was finally called, we hoped that our fate would be revealed. Instead, we were transported to Camp Asan where old barracks housed us. At the common bath area, Hien was washing clothes one day when she spied a Vietnamese man pocketing the communal bar of soap. They exchanged heated words as she reprimanded him. “How can you act like this here - especially after we have all just lost our country and homeland?” she yelled (in Vietnamese). Upon hearing these words he cast his gaze downward and silently left, still clutching the bar of soap.
One day we were taken to the Tokyu Hotel and given a room to share with others. This respite from the heat constituted the first morsel of privacy and comfort since the journey began. My father welcomed the air-conditioned spaces, but he jokingly laments how the cold always seemed to trigger bouts of diarrhea for me. Using humor to deal with trauma, Chong looks back on our ordeals with laughter. He shrugs off the discrimination and sometimes anger he experienced from Vietnamese men who told him he did not belong. For them, this refuge was for Vietnamese people, not outsiders.
While on the hotel balcony overlooking beautiful beaches, Hien remembers seeing nearby homes. Laughter caught her attention as she gazed into a backyard where a local CHamoru family was enjoying betel leaves. Thinking of how her parents would sit around to “ăn trầu,” the idyllic scene brought on intense feelings of guilt and sadness as she missed her forsaken life.
We stayed in the camps longer than most families. After our stint at the hotel, we were moved back to Orote Point. Days were spent either waiting in long food lines or filling out forms. Refugees encouraged each other to pick up litter, saying that we were being evaluated and judged as prospective Americans.
Hien remembers teenagers playing guitars to welcome and entertain the refugees. Forever emblazoned in her mind is “Sunshine on My Shoulders,” sung by volunteer families. A young volunteer girl saw Hien crying and tried to console her with socks she pulled from her pocket. As she offered them to Hien, she smiled and asked if Hien believed in God, and implored her not to be angry at God for all the hardship that had transpired.
Some 45 days after we fled Saigon, we finally learned our fate. On June 16 we boarded a plane bound for Camp Pendleton, where we changed jets and flew across the expanse of our new homeland to Eglin Air Force Base to begin life anew. My parents have always impressed upon me the gratefulness they hold for all the empathy of various strangers, from military personnel to local Guamanians, including CHamorus. The situation in those early days was hard owing to the fresh trauma and the ambiguous fate for us and loved ones left behind.
Our entire lifeworld had undergone radical and uninvited transformation, fraught with violent displacement. In recovering from utter upheaval, we owe an immeasurable debt to the foundation Operation New Life furnished. Guam set us on a completely new life trajectory, a multi-generational path of hope and resilience with family history chapters still being written today.
At Eglin we once again found ourselves in a makeshift home, sharing space in a large tent with other families. This time, however, my parents felt much more at ease. Soon after arriving in Florida, we were reunited with my mother’s childhood friend who had married an American soldier from Durham, NC. Our first two years in the US were spent in that beautiful small town, welcomed and supported by friends and more sympathetic strangers.
In 1977, we moved to Chicago where my father opened a photography business. In addition to studio portraits and passport photos, the business covered weddings and other events. While my parents both worked at the store, my father was a one-person operation in the field. Within a couple decades, my parents’ hard work led to countless opportunities within the local Korean American community, and my father was in high demand to cover social and political events throughout the city. My two younger brothers were born in Chicago.
Our life trajectories had been significantly affected and shaped by our experiences of displacement and of arrival as refugee newcomers to American society. Throughout my childhood I was privileged to hear the stories of our family histories, good or bad. I was never shielded from the traumatic details of war and displacement. Without a doubt, these stories and our experiences instilled a curiosity about identity and shaped my intellectual interests. From childhood, I have always been fascinated by humanity’s history of war and its consequences for societies, and I eventually sought to answer research questions related to war, societies, and the past, setting me on a path to doing archaeological research in Vietnam.
Today, I am a professor of anthropology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and I specialize in the early histories of Vietnamese culture. My theoretical focus has dealt with the causes, conditions, and consequences of organized violence throughout human history.
In recent years, I have sought to reconstruct our family histories as related to displacement, trauma, and resilience. This journey has led me to explore pivotal episodes, such as our exodus and subsequent odyssey from Vietnam. I was recently combing through a website someone had recommended, one that features US Navy photographs of the USS Midway throughout its operational history. As I was scrolling through countless thumbnails over coffee one morning, I looked at photos of the ship’s role in Operation Frequent Wind. Several of the images showed refugees aboard Huey’s or standing in lines on the deck of the Midway while clutching babies and scant possessions. I opened each thumbnail, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of my parents’ faces in a crowd. No such luck - until I clicked one thumbnail with the caption “Refugees in Midway's hangar bay.” As the image opened on my screen, a sudden wave of shock washed over me – I was staring into the eyes of my toddler self. I had stumbled across a photo of my father and me sitting below deck. In the ensuing days and as the full weight of the discovery settled, I found myself wondering if other photos are still out there. How many photos, artifacts, and stories are still waiting to be found, brought forward, or excavated? In scanning the faces of our fellow refugees across those Navy photos, I pondered what kinds of stories lay behind the expressions of shock, sadness, anger, confusion, happiness, and relief.
My journey has begun to come full circle. I recently visited Guam for the first time since 1975, to express our family’s gratitude and to see if collaborative work can be done to “excavate” other stories and to engage with local stakeholders. In the coming years, I will be working with key partners on anthropological research related to Operation New Life in Guam.
Biographical sketch
Nam C. Kim is Professor of Anthropology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the current Director of the Center for Southeast Asian Studies on its campus. He holds degrees in anthropology (PhD, University of Illinois at Chicago), political science (MA, New York University) and international relations (BA, University of Pennsylvania). As an anthropological archaeologist, he has conducted research in various countries. His research deals with early civilizations and the significance of the material past for modern-day stakeholders. He is especially interested in the archaeological history of organized violence and warfare. Since 2005 he has been conducting archaeological fieldwork in Vietnam at the Cổ Loa settlement in the Red River Delta. A heavily fortified site located near modern-day Hà Nội, Cổ Loa is connected to Vietnamese legendary accounts and is viewed as an important foundation for Vietnamese civilization. He is currently exploring aspects of the Vietnam War’s aftermath, including events related to Operation New Life and refugee displacement and resettlement.
Nam’s work has been featured in various podcast interviews and a documentary (on the History Hit website). He has also authored several articles and books. The Origins of Ancient Vietnam (2015) provides a glimpse into the foundations of Vietnamese civilization, as seen through the archaeological record. Emergent Warfare in Our Evolutionary Past (2018, co-authored with Marc Kissel) provides a comprehensive view on the origins of war within the history of humanity. It seeks to answer the questions about how far back in time we can see warfare, and whether or not organized violence is somehow innate within our species.
We landed in Guam at night and a school bus greeted us at the airstrip to bear us to Orote Point. Along the way my parents saw bright lights of stores lining the streets. At Orote Point we moved into “Tent City,” where we lived with our bags constantly packed and ready to move. It was a transient life in a makeshift city. By day we sat idly in the sun, listening for announcements in case our tent number was called.
My mother carried me on short walks near the camp, exploring local Guamanian landscapes to break up the monotony of camp life. While walking past the local fire station, a firefighter asked my mother how she was doing. Lost in melancholic thought, she could not muster a reply, instead feeling tears well up. Thinking we were starving, he gave her canned food.
When our tent number was finally called, we hoped that our fate would be revealed. Instead, we were transported to Camp Asan where old barracks housed us. At the common bath area, Hien was washing clothes one day when she spied a Vietnamese man pocketing the communal bar of soap. They exchanged heated words as she reprimanded him. “How can you act like this here - especially after we have all just lost our country and homeland?” she yelled (in Vietnamese). Upon hearing these words he cast his gaze downward and silently left, still clutching the bar of soap.
One day we were taken to the Tokyu Hotel and given a room to share with others. This respite from the heat constituted the first morsel of privacy and comfort since the journey began. My father welcomed the air-conditioned spaces, but he jokingly laments how the cold always seemed to trigger bouts of diarrhea for me. Using humor to deal with trauma, Chong looks back on our ordeals with laughter. He shrugs off the discrimination and sometimes anger he experienced from Vietnamese men who told him he did not belong. For them, this refuge was for Vietnamese people, not outsiders.
While on the hotel balcony overlooking beautiful beaches, Hien remembers seeing nearby homes. Laughter caught her attention as she gazed into a backyard where a local CHamoru family was enjoying betel leaves. Thinking of how her parents would sit around to “ăn trầu,” the idyllic scene brought on intense feelings of guilt and sadness as she missed her forsaken life.
We stayed in the camps longer than most families. After our stint at the hotel, we were moved back to Orote Point. Days were spent either waiting in long food lines or filling out forms. Refugees encouraged each other to pick up litter, saying that we were being evaluated and judged as prospective Americans.
Hien remembers teenagers playing guitars to welcome and entertain the refugees. Forever emblazoned in her mind is “Sunshine on My Shoulders,” sung by volunteer families. A young volunteer girl saw Hien crying and tried to console her with socks she pulled from her pocket. As she offered them to Hien, she smiled and asked if Hien believed in God, and implored her not to be angry at God for all the hardship that had transpired.
Some 45 days after we fled Saigon, we finally learned our fate. On June 16 we boarded a plane bound for Camp Pendleton, where we changed jets and flew across the expanse of our new homeland to Eglin Air Force Base to begin life anew. My parents have always impressed upon me the gratefulness they hold for all the empathy of various strangers, from military personnel to local Guamanians, including CHamorus. The situation in those early days was hard owing to the fresh trauma and the ambiguous fate for us and loved ones left behind.
Our entire lifeworld had undergone radical and uninvited transformation, fraught with violent displacement. In recovering from utter upheaval, we owe an immeasurable debt to the foundation Operation New Life furnished. Guam set us on a completely new life trajectory, a multi-generational path of hope and resilience with family history chapters still being written today.
At Eglin we once again found ourselves in a makeshift home, sharing space in a large tent with other families. This time, however, my parents felt much more at ease. Soon after arriving in Florida, we were reunited with my mother’s childhood friend who had married an American soldier from Durham, NC. Our first two years in the US were spent in that beautiful small town, welcomed and supported by friends and more sympathetic strangers.
In 1977, we moved to Chicago where my father opened a photography business. In addition to studio portraits and passport photos, the business covered weddings and other events. While my parents both worked at the store, my father was a one-person operation in the field. Within a couple decades, my parents’ hard work led to countless opportunities within the local Korean American community, and my father was in high demand to cover social and political events throughout the city. My two younger brothers were born in Chicago.
Our life trajectories had been significantly affected and shaped by our experiences of displacement and of arrival as refugee newcomers to American society. Throughout my childhood I was privileged to hear the stories of our family histories, good or bad. I was never shielded from the traumatic details of war and displacement. Without a doubt, these stories and our experiences instilled a curiosity about identity and shaped my intellectual interests. From childhood, I have always been fascinated by humanity’s history of war and its consequences for societies, and I eventually sought to answer research questions related to war, societies, and the past, setting me on a path to doing archaeological research in Vietnam.
Today, I am a professor of anthropology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and I specialize in the early histories of Vietnamese culture. My theoretical focus has dealt with the causes, conditions, and consequences of organized violence throughout human history.
In recent years, I have sought to reconstruct our family histories as related to displacement, trauma, and resilience. This journey has led me to explore pivotal episodes, such as our exodus and subsequent odyssey from Vietnam. I was recently combing through a website someone had recommended, one that features US Navy photographs of the USS Midway throughout its operational history. As I was scrolling through countless thumbnails over coffee one morning, I looked at photos of the ship’s role in Operation Frequent Wind. Several of the images showed refugees aboard Huey’s or standing in lines on the deck of the Midway while clutching babies and scant possessions. I opened each thumbnail, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of my parents’ faces in a crowd. No such luck - until I clicked one thumbnail with the caption “Refugees in Midway's hangar bay.” As the image opened on my screen, a sudden wave of shock washed over me – I was staring into the eyes of my toddler self. I had stumbled across a photo of my father and me sitting below deck. In the ensuing days and as the full weight of the discovery settled, I found myself wondering if other photos are still out there. How many photos, artifacts, and stories are still waiting to be found, brought forward, or excavated? In scanning the faces of our fellow refugees across those Navy photos, I pondered what kinds of stories lay behind the expressions of shock, sadness, anger, confusion, happiness, and relief.
My journey has begun to come full circle. I recently visited Guam for the first time since 1975, to express our family’s gratitude and to see if collaborative work can be done to “excavate” other stories and to engage with local stakeholders. In the coming years, I will be working with key partners on anthropological research related to Operation New Life in Guam.
Biographical sketch
Nam C. Kim is Professor of Anthropology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the current Director of the Center for Southeast Asian Studies on its campus. He holds degrees in anthropology (PhD, University of Illinois at Chicago), political science (MA, New York University) and international relations (BA, University of Pennsylvania). As an anthropological archaeologist, he has conducted research in various countries. His research deals with early civilizations and the significance of the material past for modern-day stakeholders. He is especially interested in the archaeological history of organized violence and warfare. Since 2005 he has been conducting archaeological fieldwork in Vietnam at the Cổ Loa settlement in the Red River Delta. A heavily fortified site located near modern-day Hà Nội, Cổ Loa is connected to Vietnamese legendary accounts and is viewed as an important foundation for Vietnamese civilization. He is currently exploring aspects of the Vietnam War’s aftermath, including events related to Operation New Life and refugee displacement and resettlement.
Nam’s work has been featured in various podcast interviews and a documentary (on the History Hit website). He has also authored several articles and books. The Origins of Ancient Vietnam (2015) provides a glimpse into the foundations of Vietnamese civilization, as seen through the archaeological record. Emergent Warfare in Our Evolutionary Past (2018, co-authored with Marc Kissel) provides a comprehensive view on the origins of war within the history of humanity. It seeks to answer the questions about how far back in time we can see warfare, and whether or not organized violence is somehow innate within our species.
Tony Lam
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Tony Lam was born in northern Vietnam on October 4, 1936. In 1954, he and family were forced to flee to southern Vietnam after the country was partitioned. In 1958, he graduated from Nguyễn Công Trứ High School. Afterward, he worked for Johnson & Piper as an assistant supervisor for the construction of the Sài Gòn Biên Hòa Highway. Up until 1962, he served as an assistant to specialists from Taiwan helping Vietnam in agriculture and fishery. From 1963 to 1964, Tony worked for the USAID/Office of Rural Affairs in counter-insurgency as an Area Specialist. In 1965, he worked for the RAND Corporation as an assistant analyst interviewing the captured communist cadres for motivation study. He and his brother founded the Lam Brothers Corporation for Construction and Stevedoring, beginning a long career in business. He continued running the business until 1975, when he and his family were again forced to flee their home.
In the final days leading up to the Fall of Saigon, as thousands of Vietnamese sought to flee the country, Tony’s wife, Mau Hop, went ahead with the couple’s six children plus three other unaccompanied minors, children of their friends, while Tony stayed behind in Vietnam to help other family and friends to leave. After a few days of separation and uncertainty, Tony reunited with his family at US Naval Base Subic Bay in the Philippines before moving to a refugee camp in Guam as part of Operation New Life. |
In Guam, Tony’s extroverted nature, leadership experience, and bilingual language skills positioned him well to step up as an elected “commanding officer” of Camp Asan. In this role, Tony greeted new arrivals, directed families to their tents, helped organize cleaning and sanitation committees, met with US military officials, comforted homesick refugees, arbitrated conflicts, translated during immigration interviews, assisted the nursery with infant milk preparation training, and helped with the refugee children’s English learning sessions. Tony also helped to organize the Fourth of July celebrations, which included sack races, a beauty pageant, a volleyball tournament, and an evening dance. Although most refugees stayed in Guam for only one or two weeks while they awaited sponsorship, Tony and his family spent three months in Guam helping to administer Camp Asan. When his daughter Cathy recently asked him why they decided to stay for so long, Tony admitted that in addition to his desire to help his displaced compatriots, he also felt some apprehension about what would come next, in the continental United States. Having lost the successful business he had built in Vietnam, the future looked uncertain.
Once Tony and his family left Guam, they were transferred to Camp Pendleton in southern California, where Tony once again took on a leadership role and volunteered to stay for a month to help administer the camp. The family briefly moved to Florida, sponsored by family friends, before moving to Westminster, California.
In Westminster, Tony and his wife worked many jobs in the community before opening a successful restaurant, Quán Ăn Viễn Đông. Tony continued to assist newly arrived Vietnamese refugees by providing job opportunities at the restaurant while also serving the community, helping refugees to apply for citizenship, settle in the US, get driver’s licenses at the DMV, and negotiate with landlords for lower rent. He helped to find space for Vietnamese American artists to exhibit and for Vietnamese American Boys Scouts to meet, and he assisted a Buddhist temple to get a city permit to operate. Tony was the founder and secretary of the Lions Club in Little Saigon. He also served as interim President of the Vietnamese Chamber of Commerce in Orange County in early 1982. He has organized several Vietnamese Tết festivals and parades on Bolsa. He also lobbied alongside community leaders for Little Saigon to have exit signs on freeways 22 and 405.
In 1992, Tony made history as the first Vietnamese American elected to public office in the United States — in this case, Westminster City Council. He campaigned on a platform of lower taxes to support the city’s small businesses. In May 2021, the Council Members of Westminster unanimously voted to change the name of West Park to Tony Lam Park in honor of his services and dedication as a council member.
Tony continues to be a celebrated member of the Little Saigon community. In 2015, he donated his papers, some of which you see here, to the Southeast Asian Archive at UC Irvine. Articles about his leadership during Operation New Life can also be found at the Richard F. Taitano Micronesian Area Research Center at the University of Guam.
Once Tony and his family left Guam, they were transferred to Camp Pendleton in southern California, where Tony once again took on a leadership role and volunteered to stay for a month to help administer the camp. The family briefly moved to Florida, sponsored by family friends, before moving to Westminster, California.
In Westminster, Tony and his wife worked many jobs in the community before opening a successful restaurant, Quán Ăn Viễn Đông. Tony continued to assist newly arrived Vietnamese refugees by providing job opportunities at the restaurant while also serving the community, helping refugees to apply for citizenship, settle in the US, get driver’s licenses at the DMV, and negotiate with landlords for lower rent. He helped to find space for Vietnamese American artists to exhibit and for Vietnamese American Boys Scouts to meet, and he assisted a Buddhist temple to get a city permit to operate. Tony was the founder and secretary of the Lions Club in Little Saigon. He also served as interim President of the Vietnamese Chamber of Commerce in Orange County in early 1982. He has organized several Vietnamese Tết festivals and parades on Bolsa. He also lobbied alongside community leaders for Little Saigon to have exit signs on freeways 22 and 405.
In 1992, Tony made history as the first Vietnamese American elected to public office in the United States — in this case, Westminster City Council. He campaigned on a platform of lower taxes to support the city’s small businesses. In May 2021, the Council Members of Westminster unanimously voted to change the name of West Park to Tony Lam Park in honor of his services and dedication as a council member.
Tony continues to be a celebrated member of the Little Saigon community. In 2015, he donated his papers, some of which you see here, to the Southeast Asian Archive at UC Irvine. Articles about his leadership during Operation New Life can also be found at the Richard F. Taitano Micronesian Area Research Center at the University of Guam.
Bryant Nguyen
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H. Bryant Nguyen, M.D. (or Nguyễn Quốc Hùng) was born in Saigon,Vietnam. During the Vietnam War, Bryant was in the fourth grade when his family decided to leave their home amidst rumors of an impending communist takeover of Saigon. On the morning of April 21, 1975, a driver picked the family up and they flew south, to the island of Phú Quốc. On April 30, when they heard the tragic news that Saigon had indeed fallen, Bryant’s family knew they had to leave for good. Armed with very few personal belongings, they boarded the SS American Challenger, a cargo ship, bounded for Guam. On the ship, Bryant remembers that each family was confined to the space of a 10 foot x 10 foot blanket. The SS American Challenger arrived in Guam on May 5, 1975. Bryant and his family stayed in the barracks at Camp Asan for about one month. His mother remembers feeling welcomed by the people of Guam and the US military. Food, clothing, and shelter were all provided; they felt “in good hands.” Nonetheless, they also felt the acute pain of loss: of their home, their country, their community, and their belongings. Bryant’s mother lost her shoes while climbing a rope ladder to board the SS American Challenger.
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In June 1975, Bryant’s family was transferred to “Tin City” at Andersen Air Force Base on the northern tip of the island. The family stayed there for a week awaiting transport to the continental United States. Finally, they flew to California. They were processed at Camp Pendleton before securing sponsorship with a church family and resettling in southern California, where Bryant grew up. Bryant graduated from high school in Santa Ana in 1983 and enrolled at University of California, Irvine. After just three years, he graduated with a degree in computer science in 1986. After working as a principal software engineer in the early era of image processing technology and earning a master’s of science in computer science and mathematics at California State University, Long Beach, Bryant decided to return to UC Irvine to study medicine. After graduating in 1998, he moved to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit, Michigan for a five-year combined residency in internal medicine and emergency medicine. In collaboration with his mentor, Dr. Emanuel P. Rivers, he published a landmark research study on severe sepsis in the New England Journal of Medicine. He continues to be a leader in sepsis research.
In 2003, Bryant started as a faculty member in the Department of Emergency Medicine at Loma Linda University. He pursued further subspecialty training in critical care medicine at Loma Linda where he continues to teach, practice critical care and emergency medicine, and conduct research. Bryant was attracted to Loma Linda’s focus on faith-based community service and stewardship. Loma Linda also has a special relationship with Vietnam. On April 17, 1974, the first open-heart surgery in Vietnam was done by a Loma Linda team. In May 1975, Loma Linda housed Vietnamese refugees in its Gentry Gym.
Recently, Bryant’s story came full circle when he returned to Guam for the Hafa Adai Pacific Medical Conference in July 2024. During his trip to Guam, Bryant presented his research on sepsis and shared his family’s story as Vietnamese refugees who called Guam home in the spring of 1975. In this way, he was able to give back to the island that welcomed his family with open arms.
Dr. H. Bryant Nguyen is Professor of Medicine, Emergency Medicine, and Basic Sciences at Loma Linda University in California. He is the Head of the Division of Pulmonary, Critical Care, Hyperbaric, and Sleep Medicine, Director for the Medical Intensive Care Unit, Director of the Advanced Lung Disease Center, as well as the Executive Vice-Chair in Department of Medicine. Dr. Nguyen has championed sepsis education and guidelines within his own institution and beyond. His list of over 100 publications and dedication to bridging the gap between research and clinical practice has taken him across the country and around the globe. Dr. Nguyen was one of the first Vietnamese Americans to attend UC Irvine. Today, he remains connected with UC Irvine through his long-time college friends, the UCI Vietnamese American Alumni Chapter, and the UCI School of Medicine Alumni Chapter.
In 2003, Bryant started as a faculty member in the Department of Emergency Medicine at Loma Linda University. He pursued further subspecialty training in critical care medicine at Loma Linda where he continues to teach, practice critical care and emergency medicine, and conduct research. Bryant was attracted to Loma Linda’s focus on faith-based community service and stewardship. Loma Linda also has a special relationship with Vietnam. On April 17, 1974, the first open-heart surgery in Vietnam was done by a Loma Linda team. In May 1975, Loma Linda housed Vietnamese refugees in its Gentry Gym.
Recently, Bryant’s story came full circle when he returned to Guam for the Hafa Adai Pacific Medical Conference in July 2024. During his trip to Guam, Bryant presented his research on sepsis and shared his family’s story as Vietnamese refugees who called Guam home in the spring of 1975. In this way, he was able to give back to the island that welcomed his family with open arms.
Dr. H. Bryant Nguyen is Professor of Medicine, Emergency Medicine, and Basic Sciences at Loma Linda University in California. He is the Head of the Division of Pulmonary, Critical Care, Hyperbaric, and Sleep Medicine, Director for the Medical Intensive Care Unit, Director of the Advanced Lung Disease Center, as well as the Executive Vice-Chair in Department of Medicine. Dr. Nguyen has championed sepsis education and guidelines within his own institution and beyond. His list of over 100 publications and dedication to bridging the gap between research and clinical practice has taken him across the country and around the globe. Dr. Nguyen was one of the first Vietnamese Americans to attend UC Irvine. Today, he remains connected with UC Irvine through his long-time college friends, the UCI Vietnamese American Alumni Chapter, and the UCI School of Medicine Alumni Chapter.
Tieu Pham
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Tieu Pham arrived in Guam in late April 1975 with his wife Minh and 5-month old son An. In Vietnam, both Tieu and his wife had learned English and used it in their work as employees of the American construction consortium RMK-BRJ as well as for the Dynalectron Corporation. Because of their status working for large American companies they were among those prioritized to leave Vietnam by C-130 military aircraft for Subic Bay in the Philippines before the North Vietnamese Army invaded Saigon.
Without knowing what would happen after they left Vietnam, both Tieu and Minh grabbed whatever possessions they could fit into their suitcase as well as Tieu’s briefcase. After hearing that Saigon had fallen on April 30, Tieu and his family were transferred to Guam as a part of Operation New Life. Their stay in Guam lasted only a few days and Tieu’s family of three left Guam on May 8, 1975 arriving at Marine Corp Base Camp Pendleton in California. After being sponsored by a Mr. and Mrs. Larry Brown in southern California, Tieu and his family moved to Orange, California and Tieu quickly looked for a job and applied for government assistance to help support his wife and child. |
He first worked late night security guard shifts for a local warehouse as well as for the Saint Joseph Hospital of Orange. Then after working as a draftsman for a number of years for the Bechtel Corporation, Tieu tried his hand in a number of different trades from restaurant management, to carpet cleaning, to realtor and to independent courier service. In the eyes of his three children his greatest success was being a loving father who always showed his support whether it was driving his kids to judo practice or driving all three on their commutes to college every day to both UCLA and UC Irvine. Tieu Pham passed in 2011 but he is survived by his son An who earned his PhD and teaches at CSU Monterey Bay, his son Hoang who earned his MD and works as a doctor in San Jose, and his daughter Kimberly who works as a photographer and video content manager and took pictures of the documents in her father’s briefcase to keep the family immigration history alive.
Cynthia P. Diep
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In this video, Cynthia P. Diep recalls her experience arriving to Guam with her family on April 24th, 1975 when she was a 19 year old high school student. She shared her story during the 50th Commemoration and Reunion of Operation New Life, held at Micronesia Mall in Guam on July 27, 2025. During her speech, Cynthia talks about a bag that she packed for the journey -- a bag that she only recently finally opened in May 2025 this year after attending the Remembering Saigon exhibit at UCI.
The bag served as a personal archive that reflected the priorities of a 19-year-old high school student at the time which were important documents, homework, and college applications. She further shares how this bag made of recycled parachute fabric both symbolized and carried her hopes and dreams for the future. |
Cynthia with the family and friends that traveled with her from Guam to Camp Pendleton, 1975
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Bio: When she was 19 years old, Cynthia P. Diep followed her mother and siblings, as Vietnamese refugees, to come to the USA in April 1975. They first arrived in Guam then transferred to Camp Pendleton in California a few weeks later. This refugee journey of leaving abruptly a war-torn country with unknown destinations to reach safety, with many volunteers helping along the way, inspired Cynthia to find hope and humanity living her new life in America. After she studied to become a dentist, Cynthia followed her mother’s profession to become an acupuncturist as well. She applies both eastern and western approaches to help patients with their chronic conditions of orofacial pain, which is often associated with underlying PTSD symptoms. In her spare time, Cynthia has found ways to give back to communities around her through volunteering. She had worked with the Braille Institute, United Way, Red Cross of America, Accueli St Frai in Lourdes France, the Pasadena Tournament of Roses in California, and medical-dental missions in Vietnam-Laos-Cambodia, among others. Cynthia also established a Diệp-Đặng Kim Xoa charitable foundation in her mother’s name to give scholarships to students in Indigenous communities.
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The Sweater of Survival: A Handmade Tale from 1975
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In 1975, within the boundaries of Camp Pendleton, California, Ms. Nguyễn Thu Nhi found herself wrapped in a unique sweater that was more than just a garment. It symbolized her family’s resilience and adaptability, a beacon illuminating their journey. This distinctive sweater was handcrafted with care and ingenuity from two blankets she had acquired during her family’s flight from Guam to Camp Pendleton. Under normal circumstances, airline regulations prohibited passengers from taking blankets off the aircraft. However, in light of her children’s health condition, the flight attendant made a compassionate exception for Ms. Nhi.
Upon their arrival at Camp Pendleton and the subsequent recovery of her children, the cold nights of San Diego presented a new challenge. Ms. Nhi repurposed the blankets into a sweater to shield herself from the chill. This artifact is a testament to her resourcefulness during a pivotal moment in her family’s history. In April 1975, they fled Vietnam during Operation Frequent Wind, propelled by her husband’s role as a senator for the Republic of Vietnam. Thus, the sweater symbolizes their survival and adaptability and their monumental journey toward a fresh start. Ms. Nguyễn Thu Nhi's sweater and story courtesy of the Vietnamese Heritage Museum. To learn more about the sweater, please click on this link. |
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