The Last Travel E-Book

Maiv Lis

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 193

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

This book recounts the journey of a Hmong family from their province in Laos to the Paris region at the end of the Vietnam War (1955-1975).

Das E-Book The Last Travel wird angeboten von BoD - Books on Demand und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:
Hmong story,Hmong culture,Hmong tradition,Vietnam War,immigration

Leseprobe

By the same author

"Tougain, the lazy man"

"The little boy with the Halloween basket"

To my mother,

and to all the women who make this world a sweeter place.

Introduction

"The last travel" is a testimonial book telling the journey that led the Hmong into exile, at the end of the Vietnam War, with no hope of return.

It is a story told in two voices: the first part is my mother's, and the second part, mine. I wanted to show that each person, while living the same experience, can have a different point of view of the same situation.

In addition, this book evokes the travel from one place to another and the Great Journey of life, which begins with birth and ends with death.

May this book bring you home, taking the time to be with your beloved family. Nothing is more precious than having a "sweet home," the source of every human being. Because, despite our differences, one must never forget that for each thing, there is always a beginning and an end.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Talking about Mao

Mao Like a mother bird

1

2

3

4

About the end

Maiv Like a memory

Chronology

Talking about May

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Nowadays

Table of main proper names

Table of main cities in Laos

WHAT MORE...

A little history

BETWEEN CUSTOMS, TRADITIONS, AND CULTS

To be born

Being a boy

Being a girl

Getting married

Healing

Hmong Ceremonies: Khi tes and Hu Plig

Becoming a Man

Embroidery

New Year

The year 1975

Writing

Among the Hmong

Dying

Books references

Acknowledgements

Talking about Mao

My mother recorded her life story on an audio cassette on July 11, 1997. How seventy-seven years could last a forty-five-minute recording? Today, four years after she left us, in 2012, it feels like yesterday. Now is the time to finish my mourning, or to really start it. I put the tape in the player: first I shivered. I recognize her voice I thought I have forgotten. But, it is real, now she has really left us. Then the reality throws me to the sadness I did not want to accept until now. My heart wants to leave my chest, and my tears flow like a river.

I imagine her in her room, in front of the little radio cassette she gave my sister, which I now use to listen to her.

I hear her needle running through the white fabric, where she places her cross stitches. She creates an embroidery. The thread sings when she pulls it over her shoulder! What color is this thread? There are red, green and blue, I can see. Her favorite colors.

Some of these linen threads, lost under the sofa, sometimes come out still now.

A slight deviation in her voice, followed by a little click, makes me understand that she is wetting another thread.

She continues telling without pause. It is her life she knows by heart. And her remembrance are still good.

On my little computer, I instantly translate her words. I paste and gather the pieces of memories, sometimes full of inconsistencies. I feel sad not have done this translation when she was alive. I could ask her questions, get more details... Maybe I thought she never dies.

She says she is like a "mother bird". It is true, I think. Her life is a labor life, since her birth in a family of Hmong farmers in Laos.

She never stops working because her target was the survival of her family.

In this transcription, I tried to be closest with her talk which is sometimes incoherents (dates, locations, history people...). During your read, do not forget that it is her point of view.

Let us follow her in her "mother bird" life.

Mao Like a mother bird

1

I was born in Laos and my life is already destined for a life of labor, like many Hmong girls in my village. Since the dawn of time, I have believed that women are only born to experience this destiny of labor. Thus, our mothers, and before them, our mothers' mothers have all plowed the lands of our ancestors...

During years of marriage, my parents were unable to have children. It is very bad within the Hmong community: a childless couple is supposed to not have done good things in their previous life. My mother begins treatment for sterility by using plants. She gives birth to my brother Tcha.

Three years later, still thanks to the treatment, I am born. My parents named me Mao, but as I am in fragile health, my parents think that this name does not suit me. So they decide to ask a woman from the Heu clan to "rename" me. It is a common practice to be baptized by someone of one's choice, which often brings good luck. Since then, I have been called Mao Heu. But on papers, I bear my father's name. He is from the Xiong clan.

We live in a busy village in the Hmong mountains called Teb nyub qus1. My parents are farmers; they grow rice. Before the sun rises and the rooster crows, under the last rays of the moon, my parents are already up. Whilst my mother is busy preparing the morning meal and feeding the animals, my father cleans the last tools: spades, scythes, knife blades serrated and worn by rust...

He shakes the baskets outside and touches up the parts untied by use. Then they go to the fields, and we don't see them again until very late in the evening. Despite their absences, my brother and I do not complain. It is normal, and we do not know we miss them.

Some neighbors stay in the village to take care of the farm tasks: feeding the animals, preparing meals, looking after the youngest children... like my brother and me.

Life in the village is tough, but fortunately, everyone is helpfull. Some women even allow other children to come and suckle their breasts, when their mothers are busy, or when they cannot have enough milk.

I am often very hungry, and when one day, the "aunt2" who is looking after me offers me her milk, I throw myself on her breasts and suckle greedily before going to hide shamely. I am also envious when I see others eating; and even when it is not food, my imagination makes me believe that there is rice in the bamboo transported by uncles coming from Paksé. It is true that the freshly cut bamboo gives off a scent of fresh rice from the fire...

My parents feel sorry for me. They whish to be able to feed us every day, but despite their work, they cannot provide for our needs, and we spend our time moving. They want to find a field that produces enough rice where we can settle permanently. Whether from Phao-Khao to Long-Cheng or from Te-Nyu-Cru to Phu-Mou, we travel through these different villages several times in our lives but cannot find a place that can welcome us for good.

Fortunately, they never give up and try slash-andburn farming. They channel the fire into huge squares of land that burn to serve as fertilizer. But the weeds on the high ground are too damp. The only way is to cut them and make small piles before burning them: a few rice plants grow slightly here and there.

The fields are a day’s walk away, in a place where it is hard to settle alone. In these mountains, you must be surrounded by other groups to survive. In addition, the topography of the place do not allow for solid housing construction.

After the harvest, my parents load several bags of rice onto the backs of sturdy horses to bring them back to the village. The return is fraught with pitfalls: the humidity and rain make the roads muddy and slippery. Of course, while working on their fields day after day, the weeds have had time to grow, and nature has taken over, making each trip back very difficult.

Exhausted by the round trips, they stayed several days in the village for housework, and the rice stock quickly sells out.

We often go hungry for two or three years before the land is warm enough to grow crops. Otherwise, we eat whatever is available: roots or tree bark that my parents cleverly turn into flour. To do this, trees on the hillside must be cut down and dragged to accessible places; women and children cut them up and bring them home. Then, we remove the bark and cut the trunk into strips that must be dried over the fire or in the sun during the day.

Once dry, the strips are crumbled, put into bags, and sieved for hours. The powder is collected, then water is added and mixed without stopping to allow the flour to clump together at the bottom of the container. We slowly remove the water, and finally, a small quantity of flour is collected, like a precious treasure that we dry near the ashes. It is mixed with rice or semolina to make it more consistent and better. It is often the only meal of the day.

My brother and I have a hard time growing properly: our bellies are often swollen, and our bronchial tubes are congested. Our bones become fragile, our lips are white, and our cheeks are pale.

In these living conditions, infant mortality is high, and my parents try to have as many children as possible. My mother begins another treatment for sterility. She gives birth to a boy who dies at the age of nine months. In the countryside, we are very superstitious. When something terrible happens, it is often a sign of bad luck, which can either mean that we did something horrible in our previous life, or that someone has cast a spell on us...

I think he died of malnutrition: my mother does not have much breastmilk and works too much. Additionally, there are no hospitals, and many people only treat themselves with opium. It is the only remedy that quickly relieves pain. For the rest, we depend on the shaman. He is the one who cures all sickness. Despite this, my father, who is himself a shaman, often treats himself with opium, which does not prevent him from having pain all over his body.

Misfortunes never come alone, and during my little brother's funeral, many criticized my parents in all sorts of ways for the performance of this most difficult and painful funeral rite. Many stay awake to watch over the deceased for several days and nights. Known or unknown guests come to pay their respects, even if he was only a small baby. The grieving family must ensure that food is available on guests' tables. This is the solidarity among peasant farmers: if no one came to the funeral, it would mean that the family was not well appreciated.

People live day by day, and this kind of drama shows ambiguous and sometimes ruthless human relationships. Slanderous people say, "Since funerals are so strange, everyone can sleep with everyone or marry everyone in your clan3".

The difference in my father's clan is that the deceased is laid down with his head against the pillar as if when sleeping. I do not understand this kind of critizes, but after the funeral, my father decides to take us to live with his family in Long-Cheng. Our survival has become less complicated with them, and my brother and I can finally grow as we become healthier. My brother even starts to flirt with girls.

It has been like this since the dawn of time. My brother will become a father and carry the weight of our family on his shoulders. At least, that is how it is in the Hmong family. The man bears the family's burden and must provide for their needs. At all costs, he must preserve the name of his ancestors and their honor.

I am prepared to become a good daughter-in-law, well-educated, well-obedient, and able to manage an entire household. As with many young people, it is the parents who arrange the marriages of their children, especially girls. Marriages with love are rare.

2

My parents rarely ask me for anything. As I am the only girl of the family, with a somewhat rebellious temper, my mother, after giving me her main educational tasks, lets me go about my business. A young man courts me but is penniless and does not dare ask for my hand. I find myself married to a son from a good family. The young man's name is Tou Lis, whose family lives a day's walk from my village.

Shortly before my wedding, I suddenly lose my voice due to a severe sore throat, and can only whisper my consent.

At seventeen, I become a wife4 and leave my parents with a heavy heart. I know it is forever. You never return home when you leave your family to build your own.

As soon as I cross the door of my childhood house, my tears and my backward glances have no impact on the hearts of those who stole my adolescence and my family. Today, I become a stranger to everyone: to my own people and to the family I marry. Indeed, a Hmong girl does not marry only the man who will become the father of her children, but his entire family, including his lineage, his customs, and his traditions.

I find this situation unfair, but I am resigned since any protest is useless: it would be futile to fight and rebel. It would only harm my parents and those of her clan.

I obediently continue with the course of my life; my mother has diligently prepared me for it since I was very young. However, the separation is difficult, and it takes me days to get used to it. After three days5, I resigned. I emerge from my silence and participate in my new life.

*

I soon discovered that my husband also obeys his parents by taking me as his wife. He has no feelings for me, or do not show it, and seems to accept me only to make his parents happy. Despite this, I am not well appreciated: I am not the obedient and submissive wife that a man of his clan deserves.

My husband comes from a very reputable family whose great-grandfather originates from China. My father-in-law is a man who owns a considerable family estate, inherited from his parents, with horses, buffaloes, pigs, and chickens. All the farm animals and the vast fields are part of this heritage, which is the pride of his clan. Everyone appreciates his family. There is always food at the table and an empty place for a surprise guest. It is an important practice for the reputation of the family.

My mother-in-law runs the house with prudence, watching over the treasure hoard amassed by the sweat of the housewives, who are both housekeepers at home and farmers in the fields. My sisters-in-law work steadily, from morning to night: weeding the fields from bottom to top, from top to bottom, feeding the animals, cooking for the whole family, made up of brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles,… With enough food only to fill their stomach as a reward, it is considered an unspeakable luxury. Not a single soap, not a jewel, or new piece of clothing, except for the New Year party. It is only during this time that the girls show themselves in pretty embroidered costumes, in bright colors, in the hope of finding a rich husband whom they could serve with the same enthusiasm as at home…

As always, no complaints come to scratch about this education that seems natural, and the idea does not occur to them that another way of doing things could exist.

I immediately immerse myself in their lives, like throwing a sponge into water. You must absorb the remarks, the orders, and the educational shock. There is plenty to do, and I contribute primarily to the household chores and fieldwork.

A year after my marriage, I give birth to my first child: a boy, named Guia. After cutting down the trees and plowing the farmland, I fall seriously ill. With hollow cheeks and completely lethargic, I owe my recovery only to a message sent to my parents, who come running with chickens and pigs to feed me. I happily notice the presence of my parents remaining in my life. They take care of me until my recovery.

Childbirths follow one after another almost every year. And as with every birth, Tou is missing, I do not note children's dates of birth. I do not read or write.

*

The rice and corn fields are close to our house. They are so vast that if a gunshot fires from one side, it cannot be heard from the other side. Now, I live like the labor of my parents.

It is as if history was repeating itself endlessly: weeding, harvesting, picking up bundles of rice to thresh them, separating the grains from the branches, pounding them, removing the husks, storing them in bags... Surrounded by all my children, who are all very young (one clinging to my legs, one stuck to my stomach, and one on my back), I am not exempted from work, even from the most challenging task. In contrast, my numerous children are detrimental to my availability, compared to my other daughters-in-law, who have few children and do no more than me.

Having children is a big handicap, while not having any is a curse and allows the husband the right to go and take other wives. However, I defend myself with my strong personality, and Tou has never been able to take another wife.

During my pregnancy, pounding rice remains one of the most exhausting tasks: after having beaten the bundles of rice with all my strength with the help of a large pestle, I had to collect the grains still covered with their husks to put them in the mortar. The mortar is made of a large wooden container; the pestle is attached to a large cleat with a footrest. I have to press on the footrest with all my strength so that the pestle removes the husks by crushing itself on the rice placed in the container. I feel my belly swelling as if it is about to burst after working on this task for half my day.

It goes on for years until the day my father-inlaw makes a pestle that works with water. Now, all that remains to monitor the work that drags on into the night. This hydraulic pestle allows me to crush a basket of ten bundles, and if I get up early, I can do a little more before going to the fields. It is a victory when that is the case, but the night is short and the day even longer, which does not end when I return from the fields. I have to cook and clean the tools to prepare for the next day's work. There is no rest, only a few hours of sleep during the night.

In the morning, at the first crowing of the rooster, I have to get up to go and get water from the river. I have to bring back five buckets of water from the river, huge and heavy buckets, which I cannot carry fully on my back. I have to be clever because you have to be smart to survive: I fill the bucket halfway, which I then put on my back, and then, using a small basin, I top off the bucket until it reaches a weight I can carry. It has to be full to avoid having to come back too often. Then, it is with an extraordinary effort, one knee on the ground, that I straighten up, screaming to free my aching body from this burden, that must represent much more than my weight. The water is used to cook, give to animals, and allow some to wash themselves...

I prepare a large pot of rice, which is so heavy that it takes two people to lift it. When the meal is ready, I can rarely sit down with everyone. With my children of all ages, I must first feed them to calm them down as they often gnaw at hunger. When I finally sit down, there is no more broth to eat with the rest of the rice: sometimes, I even have to scrape the bottom of the chili pestle to season the rice balls that I am still lucky enough to recover from the bottom of the pot.

During the day, towards the end of my pregnancy, when I am useless in the fields, I stay in the village to do daily chores.

I feed the animals; the fat of the oldest pigs is used for cooking food, and the youngest are slaughtered for their meat. When we sacrifice a pig, the entire village is invited. It is common for a party to be held with all the neighbors and friends. If some people does not come, it is because they are angry, and if there are few people, it is because the family is not appreciated and will not be invited if an opportunity arises elsewhere...

I can have some leftover meat during these holidays, but I rarely have the right to chicken meat. There is too little, and I can always and only contend with broth. During these moments, I feel very lonely and often hide to cry silently over my fate. No matter a daughter-in-law's feelings, there is no room for joy, laughter, only tears...

It is hard to make a place for yourself in a family other than the one you were born in. I know that no matter what I do, I will always be considered a stranger. The stranger, doomed to solitude, must not complain.

*

After my eighth child, my mother-in-law make it clear to Tou that there are too many mouths to feed. The children are still very young, but after cutting down the trees, mowing, and plowing the fields, my husband and I are invited to go and build a house in Long-Cheng.

It is a blessing in disguise since my parents live in this town, and I can finally live with my family again. I can relax my nerves without feeling judged for what I do or do not do. Without my husband’s family pressure, I feel better, and the children can grow up peacefully. My eldest children begin to help me, and I finally see the purpose of my life as a woman: to feed my children, like a mother bird, tirelessly.

Yes, I feel like a "mother bird". Always in an everlasting search, from morning to night, to bring back something to feed my little "sparrows". I use all my ideas by putting all the means to provide for their daily needs.

I grow vegetables to sell them on the market. I harvest vines that I dry... My work allows me to have enough to exchange for salt, oil, or rice so that everyone can grow up properly: you must not believe that everyone knows how to grow up alone, no matter how much their parents love them. You must never think like that. Being a mother means doing everything, no matter the price or how hungry and tired you are...

To help the children grow up, I feed them semolina for years.

My father-in-law has money to buy rice, which he leaves for his other son, whose wife is disabled and with whom he lives.