The Forgotten Ones
Photographic Documentation of the Last Vietnamese Boat People in the
Philippines
by Brian Doan
Nguoi Viet Daily News - Community Room
14771 Moran Street
Westminster, CA 92683
(714) 892-9414
April 17 ~ 21
Reception & Testimonials
Saturday April 17, 9am to 3pm
In conjunction with "Faceless Wounds, Nameless Peace"
Sponsored by California State University - Fullerton, History Department
Artist Statement:
The Forgotten Ones
On a rainy September afternoon in 1980 in South Vietnam, in a small village 100 kilometers northeast of Saigon, my family received a telegram from America. “Huy and Tuan arrived safely in Palawan.” It was signed by Tan, a cousin in California, telling our family that my brother and his friend were safe at the Palawan refugee camp in the Philippines. We became silent for a moment, then broke out in joyful tears. After several months waiting anxiously, the telegram appeared like a miracle. Ever since then, the word “Palawan” has been recorded in my innocent mind as the land of hope, a land of legend, a paradise for Vietnamese asylum seekers. I very much regretted that I had been unable to go with my brother.
In January 2004, almost a quarter century later, I finally stepped on that “legendary” land, not as a refugee, but as a documentary photographer. I was in Palawan to document the refugee camp as part of my Vietnamese Diaspora project. Palawan did not look like the dream land which I imagined in my childhood. Instead, here I met many miserable people - the "left-over" Vietnamese boat people and Amerasians who had arrived even before I immigrated to the United States in 1991.
The Palawan camp is located on the western Philippine island of Palawan, near the city of Puerto Princesa. The camp is located near the ocean, bordered by Puerto Princesa Airport. From here, I could see planes lining up and taking off; from here in 1995, hundreds of Vietnamese were forcibly repatriated to Vietnam until the denouncement by the Catholic Bishops conference of the Philippines in 1996. In my mind, I could imagine the other hundred thousand Vietnamese repatriated from other camps in Hong Kong, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Thailand in the 1990s.
I followed a trail to an abandoned well, and I tried to read the names which were carved onto the well's wall. The names were written in 1980, but my brother’s name was not there. Scattered over the grounds of the camp were large sections of concrete slabs with many stories of escape from Vietnam written on them. Not far away were the burning shacks of the last Vietnamese refugees who were forced to leave this camp a few weeks before. On the ground, there was a doll lying near a handmade rice grinder. There was a name on the doll’s dress, faded by heat and time - perhaps the name of the Vietnamese girl who had owned it.
On the way back to the hotel, my driver Minh took me to a small port. We sat there in silence, watching the ocean waves meet the shore and waiting for the sunset. A few yards away in the water was the hull of a wrecked boat, upside down, floating on intermittent waves. Much further away, on the other side of the ocean, was Vietnam. It takes 75 minutes to fly from Palawan to Saigon; it took days, weeks, even months for the Vietnamese boat people to cross that boundless water in ill-equipped and undersized boats, faced with many misfortunes on the ocean. Many never saw the mainland again; among them were my two close cousins Toan and Quang.
When I had arrived in Palawan, the remaining Vietnamese boat people were preparing for their traditional Lunar New Year ceremony. I heard many songs expressing their life in exile and the fate of the diaspora. I had not heard those songs for a long time; they were already disappearing from popular Vietnamese-American music. But these songs, prevalent 20 years ago, are still favored by Vietnamese boat people throughout the Philippines. Their lives seemed to be stuck in a backwater, far away from any civilization - ignored by the free world and even by their luckier compatriots.
I had insomnia for a while after I came back to America, haunted by the stories and the lives I had witnessed. I remember the sadness in the eyes of two little girls, Kim and Ngan. I remember the tears of Mrs. Van as she remembered her escape and pondered her inability to leave Palawan. I remember the hopeful smiles of these Vietnamese people, whom I wish to see again, perhaps in America. I call them “The Forgotten Ones,” but I hope that their voices will soon be h eard, and that they will have a chance to resettle in America or another third country. They have gambled with their lives for freedom – and so many have lost. They spent their youth and dreams for a new life in a new world. Their wishes have now become my dream.
Brian Doan