Younger Hmong have it much better as us older Hmong went through this too

[theking]

My dad told us to pack a bag and flee our home. Years later, I understand why

In 1979, when I was 11 years old, my father told us to pack a small bag.

That night, my family—including seven children and my two parents—left our home in Saigon and headed for a coastal village in Song Be, Vietnam. There, we boarded a small fishing boat under the cover of darkness. We crowded together with about 300 others on that boat, drifting into open water with no guarantee of survival.   

While I did not fully understand what was happening at the time, I understand it now. Especially as a father myself. My father's decision that night was one no parent should ever have to make: Risk everything, including his life and the lives of his children, or forgo the possibility of a future for his family. 

This past March, more than four decades since that night, I returned to Vietnam in my capacity as chief financial officer of UNICEF USA. Walking through the streets, I saw a country transformed. The version of Vietnam I encountered was far from the war-torn nation I left behind as a child. It was dynamic, thriving and full of opportunity. I found myself asking a question I had never considered before: Would my parents have chosen that perilous journey, including the loss of their youngest child, had they known that Vietnam would become what it is today?

I believe the answer is yes. Because more than anything else, my father's decision was fueled by hope. It was about my parents' belief that their children deserve more than uncertainty, fear and limitation.

That belief is what connects my family's story to millions of families today.

In June, we commemorate World Refugee Day and Father's Day. For me and so many fathers around the world, the two could not be more intertwined. During this moment, I urge people to remember that behind every refugee statistic is a decision like my parents'. One made not out of recklessness, but out of responsibility . Today, close to 50 million children have been forcibly displaced worldwide, the highest number ever recorded. Many are fleeing conflict, climate shocks and instability they did nothing to create.

And like me, they will carry those experiences with them for the rest of their lives.

After three days at sea, my family eventually reached Malaysia, where we were allowed to stay temporarily on a beach before being transferred to a refugee camp. A year later, we were moved again to the Philippines, where we waited more than a year for resettlement. Initially, no country would accept us. We were told there were too many children. My parents didn't speak English and did not have the right jobs. Our future did not look promising. 

But during that time, something else happened. I received my first vaccinations from humanitarian aid workers. I learned my ABCs from volunteer teachers sent by international organizations. I began to understand that the world had not forgotten us.

Chen during a recent trip to northern Vietnam to observe UNICEF's education programming in some of the country's most remote communities.

I remember seeing the UNICEF logo as a child. At that age, you don't understand institutions or funding mechanisms. But you understand what it means when someone shows up for you. You understand what it feels like to be given a chance.

That is what humanitarian support does. It does not just meet immediate needs—it creates the conditions for long-term, systemic change.

On my recent visit back to Vietnam, I saw that same principle at work. Our visit to the Inclusive Education Resource Center (IERC) at the National College of Education in Hanoi was especially inspiring. Seeing how technology is being used to support children with disabilities, helping them integrate into mainstream schools and achieve access to equal opportunities, was a powerful reminder of what inclusive education can achieve.