My First Christmas

I'm often asked why I don't celebrate Christmas. I shrug off the question with a simple, "I just don't." It's really only the half-truth... My family has never really celebrated Christmas in the traditional sense. My mom did put up a tree for me for a few years when I was really young, but that was basically it. Maybe we're lethargic or apathetic - or a combination of both, but we never got into the holiday.

However, as I got older, I started to learn more about my history and realized how I should celebrate the holidays. The story of my first Christmas is very unique and tells a tale about struggles, oppression, and finally, freedom. The events that occurred on that day has allowed me to appreciate everything in life, from the mundane to the those that really matter. This is the story of my first Christmas.

My parents were caught up in a conflict known as the Vietnamese border raids in Thailand. It was a conflict that occurred from 1979 to 1988, which dispersed millions of Vietnamese and Cambodian citizens across three nations, many of which ended up in the refugee camps on the Cambodia-Thai border. This infamous region is known as the Dangrek Mountains; a site that is associated with inhumanity.

They made the decision to escape Vietnam shortly after they got married and had to reach Thailand where the conflicts were much more subsided and refugees were being relocated all across the world. With literally nothing, they trekked hundreds of miles from Soc Trang, Vietnam to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. To say the trek was long and arduous would be an understatement considering the war-like conditions of Asia. Years of conflict through multiple wars really did make the regions unsafe as minefields littered the country. After arriving in Phnom Penh, they had to take a train to Battambang, but were too poor to pay for a train ticket. My parents, along with dozens of others, sneaked onto the train which led to the first obstacle.

Mom and dad were quietly looking out the window as the train voyaged on. A train inspector entered the car and looked towards my parents immediately. He saw the lighter skin tone and lack of characteristics commonly found in Cambodians. If he could find out they were not Cambodian, my parents would be forced off the train as trespassers. The inspector asked a question in his native tongue. My dad replied back in Cambodian to the shock of the inspector. The inspector looked at my mom, who did not speak Cambodian and did not understand what he was saying. Quickly, my dad interrupted and said "My wife, she is both mute and deaf." The employee stared at my parents and dismissed them as lighter-skinned Cambodians, and gave them a pass even though they lacked ID and a ticket. A sigh of relief. My dad, a life-saving skill perhaps, was able to pick up the Cambodian language, very fluently in fact, during a short period of time. This allowed them to continue their way north under this ruse.

This train ride was frequently interrupted with stops as the train tracks had been destroyed from the war. Passengers would have to exit one train and board a new train, sometimes miles away. At times, transported by bus, motorcycle, or by horse to the next train stop.

Finally arriving in Battambang, they were not greeted with cheers. Instead, my parents were sent to an outskirt town and put in a prison. The prison loved taking people in because humanitarian organizations like the Red Cross and the UN would pay rice in exchange for the release of prisoners. My parents were fortunate enough to be selected as trade bait and were placed on the Red Cross's list to leave to Canada, but the ordeal was not over as they still had to go to another camp, known as Nong Samet, for placement.

The camp was situated in the jungle and the trail into it was a sliver wide, where a small error in judgement would result in catastrophe. It was covered with mines and where there were no mines were dead bodies. My parents described the refugee camps as filthy and full of disease. While residing in the refugee camp, I was conceived. I was born so thin that my body looked undeveloped, as the silhouette of my organs could be seen. Not given much chance to live, but my parents did what they could.

But my mom was malnourished. We had no food, and my mom weighed just 65 pounds that day. She was unable to breast feed her own son. Luckily, other mothers were very giving and fed me their excess breast milk, and other families fed my parents congee and water. It was months of pure starvation for my parents but they survived, barely.

My dad recalled it may have been Christmas Day, and we were told that we were being taken away to freedom, but suddenly, tanks started rolling in and my family was right in the middle of a war zone. Bombs, gunfire, and tank shells blasted the camps. 60,000 refugees took cover and tried to escape the mayhem, not wanting to be a casualty of war. Hundreds, including my own family, hid underneath a cliff that was a waterfall in the summer, but a dry well in the winter. The Thai soldiers that accompanied us were also hiding there. They were forced to shoot or beat babies that cried, often to death, for fear that their cries would alarm their enemies towards us, yet by some miracle, I did not cry. This allowed us to remain alive among the dead.

When the sun rose, the battle had ended. The dead and alive were covered in ashes from fire that destroyed parts of the camps and jungle. The chaperones started calling the names of those who were listed on the Red Cross's list to stand on one side and the rest on another side. One man that had not been selected ran to the selected group and tried to give us a letter to give to his loved ones, but the Thai soldier shot and killed him for disobeying them. It was unruly and vicious, but it was the law and order of the times.

The bus awaiting for the lucky folks was seven miles away, understandably being cautious as to not enter the camps just hours after a battle. My dad, holding me and an empty bag for food, and my mother, too weak from giving birth still, would become abandoned by the rest of the group because we were too slow.

The remainder of the group had been at the bus waiting for us, but many were getting impatient and restless. An argument ensued between refugees and staff. "The Luu family is dead! Get us out of here," someone yelled.
"My job is to make sure we count everyone on the list. We cannot leave until we find them, dead or alive," replied the driver. Staff and refugees continued to fight over the process when suddenly a man yells. "There they are!"

My parents emerged from the jungle with cuts all over their body. Their clothing torn to bits from the thorns and bushes. Blood soaked my dad's body and clothing. The Red Cross associates ran towards us and helped us get onto the bus. They gave buns the size of a fist and one hard-boiled egg. It was not very much, but for my dad, after having not eaten in more than 24 hours, it felt like a buffet. My mother received a blanket and turned it into a Tarzan-like tunik for me. Up until that point, I had been naked since birth, but that blanket was my first Christmas gift ever courtesy of the Red Cross.

My family was relocated to Edmonton Canada in May 1985 - a place I now proudly call home. I couldn't be prouder to be Canadian and I have always been so thankful for those that accepted us into their country when a lack of trust existed towards Vietnamese and Asians at the time.

Remember how people often ask me why I don't celebrate Christmas. I shrug off the question with a simple, "I just don't." It's only the half-truth. I feel blessed everyday knowing that each moment is a gift. I am surrounded by people that matter more than any present. The whole truth is "I just don't need to."

Post-Script
After years of research, we recently found the historical event on a Wikipedia page "https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnamese_border_raids_in_Thailand" and I contacted the Associated Press for more details in 2018 about this article, however they have not yet responded to date. Thank you for reading my family's story!