It was November 1980.  At the age of 19, my parents Quốc and Ro were in love and living in Cự Lại and Thựơng Phưồn, two fishing villages in Central Việt Nam that were surrounded by water on both sides: one side by Thanh Lam dam and the other by the Pacific Ocean.  The country they grew up in was ravished by decades of war, and the poor were only growing poorer as the economy struggled.  When the capitol Saigon fell in April 1975 and the Americans pulled out, those living in the former Republic in Central and Southern Việt Nam had three choices: join the communist army, get sent to jail, or escape.  

In 1980, my father had finally come of age to enlist.  But with my father’s distaste for communism and fear of death in the country he grew up in, he and my mother wanted to leave this life for another.  Then, one night, news from my Ông Ngoại (maternal grandfather) arrived that a fishing boat was leaving that night for Hong Kong and there were only two spots left.  My mother called for my father to leave with her.  She risked her life and said goodbye to her family.  My father said goodbye to his parents and watched his siblings sleeping on the floor of his childhood home for the last time.  Then, they left. 

“When I left Việt Nam I didn’t know America, I didn’t know about Hong Kong, I didn’t know about China.  Because my city they didn’t have television, they didn’t have radio.  I don’t know where to go.  I don’t know what it is.  I don’t know the world.  I left my country is mean I don’t like communist.  I just get out.  Even if I have something in the ocean and I died in the ocean I didn’t know.  I just left because someone told me to go, I go.  I didn’t know anything.”

- Quốc 

In January 2015, my parents were living in Sacramento, California, their six children spread out across the United States, when they heard news that Mẹ Nội (paternal grandmother) was months away from passing in Việt Nam.  She was the only parent my father had left.

As the youngest of six children, I had a special relationship with my parents.  I missed the tougher transition years when my parents first moved to America.  I was freer in my life choices as each child pushed boundaries to make room for the others.  I was their út (youngest daughter).  The result: I became a filmmaker with a curiosity for the Vietnamese culture I only half experienced and the life my parents were forced to leave behind.

When my parents booked their flight to Việt Nam, I used it as an opportunity to learn their story.  That year was the first time my parents walked the same path they escaped on 36 years ago.  It was the most they had ever told their story.  And it started the therapeutic process of grappling with who they had to leave behind for their new life in America.  The family they left behind to create their own.

My father was the only person in his family of eight to escape.  My mother was one of three who made it to America.  The rest of her twelve family members remained in Việt Nam.  Some tried to leave, but none made it.

When my parents and I came to see Mẹ Nội, she could no longer speak.  My father’s family gathered together for one last family photo.  My father, normally a man so stoic, fell into tears as he tells Mẹ Nội he never would have made it to America without her.

Two months later, Mẹ Nội passes.

“When mommy and daddy die, you don’t have it.  You have to find somebody else.  You can find another girlfriend, husband, but you can’t find another family if something pass away.”

- Quốc Van Phan

Over three days, family and friends celebrate Mẹ Nội at her Buddhist funeral.  We don our áo dài (traditional Vietnamese outfit), whose color and design signify our special relationship to her.  For the first two days, her casket remains in the house as people come to pray.  Musicians play instruments in the background and the smell of incense fills the air.  The house is lined with flower wreaths with names of family members and friends.  Buddhist monks lead chants as food is offered to her in the afterlife and then given to the poor.

On the third day, all those who have honored Mẹ Nội walk her to her grave, a mausoleum hand crafted by her family.  The men lower her body into the spot saved for her next to Ông Nội (paternal grandfather).  Her grave transforms into a meadow of flowers of those that love her as wreaths are placed all around.  Everyone prays for one last time and says their goodbyes.

Before we leave Việt Nam, my parents walk the path of their escape one last time.  When they look out onto the sea, they can see where they came from and where they are now.

In Sacramento, my father adds Mẹ Nội’s portrait to the family shrine.  She accompanies Ông Nội and the brother my father lost years ago.  Every few months, my parents lay out food and light incense for them in the afterlife.  And during Tết (Lunar New Year), we give our ancestors and those before us the clothes, food, and money that they once gave us.