MISSION
To share the devastation, survival, and the success of people of war so that others can have a window to our stories. Our war no longer kept a secret. The pain and suffering of our people can now be heard.
My sister was confident and courageous,
“When the sunrise passes the mountain tops, we will start moving again. Do you remember the cowbells pass the rice patties? That means there should be another shelter near where people are hiding. We will go there and join them. Then maybe we will find food and continue to the Mekong”.
I nodded and agreed with her plan. The morning sun sneaked through the cracks between the bamboo walls of the shelter. The roof of the hut weaved carefully to shelter the owners of the field from rain, now served as a bomb shelter from shards descending from the bombs that appeared like fireworks dropping to the earth every 8 mins throughout the midnight sky.
Crawling as low as we can for miles, our ears searched for the whisper of cowbells. We hear an unusual bird call. My sister starts whistling, and in her whistle I can make out some words. As her whistles and the other started to slow down, the cowbells got louder. My sister was right, we found a group of people who were on their way to the Mekong. The following morning we set off our journey to freedom. This was it, we walked away from everything we had, with nothing but the shirt on our back and the mud stained sarong that’s wrapped around our waist. We were going to embark on an entirely unknown journey. We have lost contact with everyone in our family. We heard horror stories of those who didn’t make it to the Mekong and those who were picked up from the river. There were communist boats on the river every night. But that was everything that we were willing to risk to survive this torturous war.
Night fall and the cow stomachs and cow bladders we blew and hung to dry were ready to serve as life preservers to get us through the 8 mile stretch across the Mekong River. As everyone was passing out the life preservers to the women and children, we were short one life preserver. With optimism my sister pats on the life preserver and says,
”We will both hold onto it and it will get us across, this will work.”
As she hands me the cow bladder the size of a couch pillow. I held onto it as my sister grabbed the bladder from behind me holding me between the bladder. We sunk as low as we could into the cold river and walked until our feet were floating behind. My sister, still holding onto the bladder from behind me and swimming us with her right arm. A quarter of the way in, the rapids of the river became stronger and more violent with rain. We lost sight of everyone who came with us. I looked back at my sister as I heard her gasping and swimming trying her best to navigate us to freedom. Suddenly, my sister lost her grip from the life preserver and grabbed my shoulder. She wrapped her arms across my chest and continued to swim with the other. As another wave hit us, my sister’s grip slipped holding onto my shoulders, she had now lost the ability to swim with her other arm. She yelled at me to hold onto the life preserver harder and as another wave hit, it took the grip of my sister off my shoulders, in that moment my body stopped fighting for freedom. My arms and body weight dropped on the life preserver and I closed my eyes. Everything went silent.
Morning came and I was laying in the refugee camp. My sister was right, it worked, I made it across. But there was nothing in the world that can convince me to have any gratitude to celebrate my life, losing my sister. I wasn’t at the refugee camp for long until my cousin found me. He took me to their village and I got a new set of clothes. He shaved my hair off. My long hair that was now in tangles, knots, and infested with lice from being in the thick of the jungles and fields for weeks. It took everything that happened just days ago with it. As if it was going to fall off, I tightly wrapped my shaved head with a scarf, holding onto everything that I had left into my new life.
“When the sunrise passes the mountain tops, we will start moving again. Do you remember the cowbells pass the rice patties? That means there should be another shelter near where people are hiding. We will go there and join them. Then maybe we will find food and continue to the Mekong”.
I nodded and agreed with her plan. The morning sun sneaked through the cracks between the bamboo walls of the shelter. The roof of the hut weaved carefully to shelter the owners of the field from rain, now served as a bomb shelter from shards descending from the bombs that appeared like fireworks dropping to the earth every 8 mins throughout the midnight sky.
Crawling as low as we can for miles, our ears searched for the whisper of cowbells. We hear an unusual bird call. My sister starts whistling, and in her whistle I can make out some words. As her whistles and the other started to slow down, the cowbells got louder. My sister was right, we found a group of people who were on their way to the Mekong. The following morning we set off our journey to freedom. This was it, we walked away from everything we had, with nothing but the shirt on our back and the mud stained sarong that’s wrapped around our waist. We were going to embark on an entirely unknown journey. We have lost contact with everyone in our family. We heard horror stories of those who didn’t make it to the Mekong and those who were picked up from the river. There were communist boats on the river every night. But that was everything that we were willing to risk to survive this torturous war.
Night fall and the cow stomachs and cow bladders we blew and hung to dry were ready to serve as life preservers to get us through the 8 mile stretch across the Mekong River. As everyone was passing out the life preservers to the women and children, we were short one life preserver. With optimism my sister pats on the life preserver and says,
”We will both hold onto it and it will get us across, this will work.”
As she hands me the cow bladder the size of a couch pillow. I held onto it as my sister grabbed the bladder from behind me holding me between the bladder. We sunk as low as we could into the cold river and walked until our feet were floating behind. My sister, still holding onto the bladder from behind me and swimming us with her right arm. A quarter of the way in, the rapids of the river became stronger and more violent with rain. We lost sight of everyone who came with us. I looked back at my sister as I heard her gasping and swimming trying her best to navigate us to freedom. Suddenly, my sister lost her grip from the life preserver and grabbed my shoulder. She wrapped her arms across my chest and continued to swim with the other. As another wave hit us, my sister’s grip slipped holding onto my shoulders, she had now lost the ability to swim with her other arm. She yelled at me to hold onto the life preserver harder and as another wave hit, it took the grip of my sister off my shoulders, in that moment my body stopped fighting for freedom. My arms and body weight dropped on the life preserver and I closed my eyes. Everything went silent.
Morning came and I was laying in the refugee camp. My sister was right, it worked, I made it across. But there was nothing in the world that can convince me to have any gratitude to celebrate my life, losing my sister. I wasn’t at the refugee camp for long until my cousin found me. He took me to their village and I got a new set of clothes. He shaved my hair off. My long hair that was now in tangles, knots, and infested with lice from being in the thick of the jungles and fields for weeks. It took everything that happened just days ago with it. As if it was going to fall off, I tightly wrapped my shaved head with a scarf, holding onto everything that I had left into my new life.
Have your story told. 25 stories with photos will be selected for the final project. Details of the final project will be disclosed once your story has been selected. (DEADLINE for entries December 31st, 2020)
How to enter your story;
Provide stories that must come with a photo. Stories must include; who, what, when and where.
Stories such as;
*Please be descriptive as possible.
How to enter your story;
Provide stories that must come with a photo. Stories must include; who, what, when and where.
Stories such as;
- child soldier stories
- marriage and weddings during these times
- giving birth
- funerals
- crossing the Mekong river
- escape stories
- women soldier
- stories from the children during the war
- stories from children who were abandoned
- leaving family members behind
- refugee camp stories
- prisoners of war
- Laos family who sheltered families and children.
*Please be descriptive as possible.
Tell Us your story
Deadline is December 31, 2020
There are 2 options to submit your story. 1) Email your photo and story to pangvangllc@gmail.com or 2) Submit your story below.
The Pang & Family Foundation LLC | 3065 N 124th Street Suite 201A Brookfield, WI 53005 |920-205-9523 | pangvangllc@gmail.com
