USA TODAY International Edition
Buried bombs, and memories, send me back to my native Laos
I just celebrated my birthday by returning to Laos, the country of my birth. The country I gave up when I became a naturalized U. S. citizen.
It was on a mission with the advocacy group Legacies of War to help clear unexploded ordnance. Laos was finally calling my name. It was my first time back since my family fled to America in 1981, when I was only 7.
I had sworn that I’d return when I reached my 18th birthday in 1992. But back then, Laos was still unstable. It was still recovering from both the war in neighboring Vietnam and the American secret war – when between 1964 and 1973, the United States dropped more than 2.5 million tons of ordnance on Laos, making it the most heavily bombed country per capita in history – the secret war that my family fled.
I was recovering, too, but I knew I’d go back one day. College, work and raising children delayed the dream.
Four decades later, I returned to Laos the same way I left – by way of Thailand. Then, we fled by boat in the darkest hour of night and in a state of urgency and fear. This time, I flew on Lao Airlines across the Mekong River to the capital city Vientiane.
A haunting question
As the pilot’s voice informed us that we’d land soon, I expected my heart to beat to patterns of apprehension and caution – the feelings that had overwhelmed my memories of Laos. I was finally here at last. I released a quiet prayer to my father who had yearned and dreamed of returning to his beloved country but died before he could. I told myself that my objective for returning was to support the mission of ridding Laos of unexploded ordnance, not to celebrate a homecoming. After all, I was no longer a Lao national.
While in Vientiane, before meeting with partner nonprofit organizations and trekking to five cities in 15 days, I met a reporter from the Laotian Times for an interview about our personal stories. This lovely and confident young woman, born long after the war, raised a question that haunted me for the rest of the trip. She asked about the circumstances around my emigration to the United States and whether I had struggled with life in America.
The truth was – I really didn’t know. And I had often felt somewhat lost because my parents never talked about why we fled.
Surprisingly, after all these years, I did not feel like a stranger as expected, nor was I treated as one. As I traveled, there were many firsts for me as an adult: I reveled in the native pronunciation of my given name; I had full conversations in Lao; I stood in a bomb crater; I saw bombs melted into jewelry; I helped deactivate ordnance so that it could not harm the next generation; I drank Beerlao.
At every passport checkpoint, there was much appreciation for my very “Lao” name. It was noted repeatedly that it was a man’s name ( my father had thought it was a good way to protect his daughters during war). Officers would look at my U. S. passport and inquire, but not a single person asked me how to pronounce my name and explain where it was from. It was liberating.
In Savannakhet province, while visiting with demining operators at The HALO Trust, I spotted something that connected a bunch of dots in my head. On the wall in the briefing room, there was an old print of a large map titled, “U. S. Bombing Missions over Laos.” It showed areas consumed by red dots.
Each dot represented a “sortie” – one of 580,000 bombing missions from 1964 to 1973.
Millions of unexploded bombs
Southern Laos was engulfed in red, predominantly in Savannakhet. I suddenly heard my father’s voice: It’s not safe for us. We need to leave Laos. A deafening rush of memory and emotions roared through my consciousness. I never knew what my father meant until that moment. We couldn’t go back home. Home was littered with red dots.
I tried not to dwell on my woes. My priority was to understand the operations of mine clearance groups, make site visits and connect with survivors.
In Laos, the older generation is trying to abandon war memories but are still carrying visible wounds.
The young ones, innocent of their history, are constantly reminded that they are living with unexploded land mines. A third of the bombs dropped did not explode on impact, leaving millions buried in Laos today.
Betrayal, survival
On my last night, I could not sleep. Images of the past two weeks assailed me: the bomb craters in the rice fields; the shrapnel in a survivor’s forearms; the houses held up by mortar and shells.
All these images mixed with my own childhood memories of Laos: foraging in bamboo groves; a house on stilts; my reflection in the river; my father’s urgency; my mother’s fear; our forced departure; bullets raining in the night sky.
I sobbed. I had waited for so, so long for my father to take me back home. Dear Laos, I am so sorry that I had to give you up, and I am so sorry that I gave up on you for so long. Yes, I struggled in the United States. But I lived. I was heartbroken with guilt.
I escaped a life of peril and uncertainty. Many Laotians did not. More than 50,000 people have died or been injured by the ordnance left behind in the soil.
Sitting in my hotel room, I felt betrayed by my father, by the people who swore to help and protect Laos, and even by Laos herself. Why didn’t any of you tell me about the unexploded mines? If I had known, I would have returned decades ago.
Friday is Lao National Day. Despite the past, it’s a day to celebrate the survival and the achievements of the Lao people in the United States and in Laos.
Khamsone Sirimanivong, president of Arizona Costume Institute at Phoenix Art Museum, is a board member of Legacies of War.