2 Whirlwind Flights Years Apart Carried a Tired Child to Freedom

In April of 1975, I was 8 years old and getting on an airplane for the first time.

It was Tan Son Nhat airport in Saigon, and my family was fleeing from the Communist takeover. I had been sheltered from the violence in a war-torn country, and did not understand the significance of the political changes or my parents’ sorrow about the necessity of the trip.

I did not even believe that I was not to see my birthplace again. All I knew was that not only did my adventure involve being on a plane, but that the plane was going to take me to the United States--a magical place of abundance.

On Jan. 3 of this year, I again found myself on a plane leaving my country. But this time, that country was the United States, and the plane was taking me to Narita, Japan, as a reporter for The Times. I was to interview some families who were making the same trip my family did almost 15 years earlier. In spite of my desire to remain an objective observer, it was to be no ordinary assignment. And before it was done, I was to see an image of myself from long ago.

The first of thousands of Vietnamese political prisoners and their families were due to arrive at Los Angeles International Airport on Jan. 5 to resettle in the United States, and another Times reporter and I were to meet the immigrants as they stopped in Narita and interview them on the way back to Los Angeles.

I only learned of the trip the evening of Jan. 2, and had spent the night worrying about getting my passport in time to make the flight. Only when the mad rush was over and I was on the plane did I think about those I was to interview.

I was happy for these families and their new chance for a better life, yet I knew they would be carrying troubled memories. I found myself worrying whether they were eating well and getting enough sleep. I had never seen these people before, but it felt as if I was going to be reunited with long-lost relatives.

I finally met the four families in a nearly empty waiting room at Narita airport. Most were sleeping on comfortable, cream-colored chairs but several were restlessly looking out the wall-size windows and admiring the buildings of one of the most modern airports in the world. The other reporter and I introduced ourselves to the adults, who were waking up one at a time as they sensed strangers in the room.

Then I saw her.

She had short hair with bangs straight across her forehead, and was wearing the same type of light coat that I had worn on my adventure when I was 8. The only difference was that mine had been pink and hers was blue, but the white lace around the collar was there. I was instantly drawn to her and wanted to know all about her.

She looked at me shyly and slowly answered my questions. Her name was Linh-Tuyen Thi Nguyen. She was 7 years old, the daughter of the Rev. Cuong Nguyen. She did not know why her family was making this long trip, but she hoped they would get to America soon because she was tired of traveling.

I continued taking notes as the adults talked to me, but I looked at Linh-Tuyen often and thought to myself: I had been only a year older, I had short hair, I had been very fond of my pink coat, and I also had not understood the reasons for the exodus.

Then I could not help but smile remembering that, while my family had been waiting at Tan Son Nhat airport, my cousin and I had picked up some clods and pebbles and had said that we would take pieces of our birthplace wherever we would go. Well, I had grown tired of the sentimental earth and had dropped it even before I stepped onto the military jet that would take us to the first stop on the journey to our new home.

I did not dare dredge up any more memories after that because my eyes were threatening to fill with tears. I could not allow that to happen. I was there in Narita chiefly to do a job.

After the 15 people were over their initial shyness, they were full of questions about California and the Vietnamese community in the States. They were glad to hear someone from outside their group speak a familiar language. On the nine-hour plane ride to Los Angeles, I was touched when the women confided their worries as if I was a niece or a sister.

The plane landed. Then, for an hour, we impatiently went through customs. They were eager to be reunited with families and friends waiting for them at the gate. I was eager for them to see their new home.

I walked behind the four families as they turned the corner into the waiting room. All of a sudden there were cheers, voices were calling out the names of the two pastors in the group and there were sounds of hands clapping. It felt as if we were athletes entering an arena to compete in an important game. I swallowed tears again and reminded myself that I was only one of the spectators. My emotions would have to stay hidden.

We were soon swept away in a flurry of huggings, popping flashlights and impromptu press conferences. But when the hubbub died and I could stop being a journalist for a while, I said goodby to my new families in spirit. One of the women kissed my cheek, and I allowed her to see my red eyes.

I looked around to see Linh-Tuyen playing with some new friends, and I was happy that she seemed to have no worries. There would be plenty of time later in her life to remember the journey and ask why.