This is the story of Pahoua Lee-Kongkeo. A child nine years of age, who was lost, presumed to have died while crossing of the Mekong so many years ago."

“This is the story of Pahoua Lee-Kongkeo. A child nine years of age, who was lost, presumed to have died while crossing of the Mekong so many years ago." -Kou Vang

 

(Part of “Portraits of Hmong Women Photo Essay Documentary” by Kou Vang) 

 

It was evening when we decided to cross the Mekong River for the first time.  We were crossing in a group of about 50. Since I wasn’t a strong swimmer, I was tied by inner tube to my uncle and aunt. My immediate family – mother, father and two sisters – went into the water ahead of us. Suddenly, the communists started shooting toward us as soon as they heard voices. 

It was a terrifying moment. 

Some bullets must have hit the ropes that connected me with my uncle and aunt because I found myself floating backwards, alone. I screamed for help and called for my mother and father, losing sight of the group in the darkness.  I yelled until I couldn’t anymore. But no one heard me. No one would come back for me.

 I drifted further and further, until it was just me among the many dead bodies floating in the river.  I started to shiver from cold as the currents of the Mekong took me into what seemed like oblivion. Maybe it was my frozen arms that clung tightly onto the inner tube that wouldn’t let me go. I had been in the chilly waters for nine hours before I floated into a shallow area. 

Vietamese soldiers were out fishing and saw me float by. They dragged me out of the water and brought me to their captain. By that point, I was so cold that I couldn’t say a word. I was drifting in and out of consciousness and didn’t know how long I would be able to stand on my own. I didn’t know what they were going do to a nine-year-old female Hmong child. I couldn’t speak their language and didn’t know what their next move would be.

 

The captain took one look at me and ordered his men to get clothes, a blanket and food for me. There was something about him that made me feel secure. I stuck by his side for fear that others may not be as kind to me as he was. Others told him to just kill me because I was a Meo, a sub clan they considered beneath their kind. He told me he had 15 days to find someone to take me in otherwise he would have to kill me. He took me to five villages around that area to see if anyone wanted an orphaned Hmong child.

 

“Why would we want a Meo in our family? She’s better off dead.”

 

“She’ll grow up and kill us because she’s not our blood. What are you waiting for? Kill her now.”

 

“She’s disgusting, filthy. She stinks. We don’t want her.”

 

It was hopeless.

 

The captain said ordinarily when they found Hmongs, they would kill them. That I should feel lucky that he decided to keep me alive. He showed me first-hand the types of things they did to my people.  Things a nine-year-old girl shouldn't ever see.

 

A Hmong woman they had captured was on her knees, crying while holding her infant baby with one hand and using the other to plead with them not to kill her. They coldly shot her through her baby, right to her heart. She died instantly.

 

When they came across children, they picked them up and threw them in the river as though they were rocks. They didn’t want to waste ammunition on them. They savagely tortured and killed so many Hmongs. Bodies were all around the campsite.

 

There was so much killing, cruelty and death.

 

It was the 15th day, with 6 p.m. quickly approaching. It was my execution time. Since the captain couldn’t find anyone willing to take me in, he said he had to kill me. I began weeping as he walked me into the jungle. He shot once and the bullet bounced inches from my feet. He shot again. That also missed me.

 

Unexpectedly, a woman’s voice screamed through the trees, yelling, “Stop! Stop! Don’t kill her. I want her. Don’t kill her!”

 

I stopped crying as a Laos woman came barreling out of the thicket towards us. The captain reluctantly handed me over to her. She asked if he wanted money and he said no. He said he’d give me to her in hopes of his good fortune in the future, maybe as a way of reconciling for all the people he’d murdered. He told the 45-year-old Laos woman that there was something magical in my face that made him feel he couldn’t kill me.

 

My Laos mother, as I called her, lived with her husband in a small thatched house. They were childless. She had heard from villagers that a solider came by trying to sell a young Meo girl. My mother happened to be at the farm that day. When she heard the shots, she knew it must be me. That’s when she came running. Later that same evening, my mother went to buy chicken to call my soul home, similar to our Hmong soul-calling ceremony when a child is born.

 

I didn’t know if my Hmong family had survived. My Laotian family certainly wasn’t obligated to take me in. It was a tremendous offering on their part, something I will never forget. Other Laotian people looked down on my parents for taking in a Meo girl when there were other Laotian children who needed help. I think the fact that I was just Hmong – the dirt beneath their feet – bothered them.

 

I eventually learned how to speak Laotian and forgot my native language. Every day, I helped on my new parents’ farm. One morning, when I was 11, I woke up with a terrible migraine and told my mother I wouldn’t be able help farm that day. Since I was staying home, my mother left me a plate with some rice and fish my father had caught and cooked the night before. My father and three cousins took their portions of fish with them and ate while at the farm. My mother was not with them, since she had gone instead to look for an ox that was missing. During the day, our dog got a hold of my portion of the fish and ate it. When I woke up, the dog was dead. Soon after, my mother came home crying frantically. My father and cousins also died after eating the fish. They must have gotten food poisoning.

 

Why did I get a headache that particular morning? Apparently, it was not my turn to die. I had escaped death twice now.

 

It was just my mother and me now. Life was hard.

 

When I turned 12, my mother wanted to send me to school so I could be educated. She didn’t want me to be dumb and live this kind of life when she was gone. She worked as I attended school.

 

During a walk to school one day, a Laotian man and a Thai man approached me. They said they knew I was Hmong and knew my family was alive. If I wanted to see them, the men said I had to go with them to Thailand. I was confused by all of this but the hope of seeing my Hmong family excited me. I decided to go with them.

 

Incidentally, they didn’t take me to see my family. They took me to a Madame (a head mistress at a prostitution house). She took one look at me and asked who I was and where they got me. When they told her, she shook her head and demanded they bring me back to my mother, her sister. She even gave them money to get me back safely otherwise she’d press charges against them for trying to sell me. I got home safely, but when I think about what they could’ve done, I’m still astonished.

 

As I attended school, a Laotian boy who had seen me walk to school everyday befriended me. I could tell he liked me but what did I know of love at age 12? His family owned taxis (riding bikes to take people from place to place or around town). I didn’t think much of him but his family also liked me and saw how my mother and I lived. They wanted me to become their daughter-in-law someday. The boy was very kind to me. He bought me clothes, paid for some of my schooling and supplies, and bought food when we didn’t have enough. He and his family went out of their way to take care of my mother and me.

 

The captain who gave me away came back when I was 14. Now, he wanted money, otherwise he threatened to take me back with him. He didn’t think my mother would have the money, but she did. She gave him money to leave us alone. He did for a while, but then showed up again. This time he ordered me to go with him.

 

He had gotten married and wanted me to be a slave for his family.  Since he found me, he believed I was his property and he insisted my mother give me to him. She refused and I didn’t want to go. Since I was not willing to go, he ordered his men to tie my hands together at my wrists and they forced me to go. They held my pleading mother down as she watched them drag me towards their camp.  I wasn't sure I would see her again.

 

The captain's men hauled me for miles. All my clothes shredded from my body. My skin was stripped raw from the hard, pebbly ground. I was bleeding everywhere. The pain was unbearable.

 

When they cut off the ropes and with the last of my strength, I ran into the jungle. I wasn’t afraid to die; I just wanted to be with my family. I kept running until I found a cave-like crevice underneath a tree. I hid there for three days and three nights.

 

I remember during the second day, a huge tiger came by and stared at me. It lingered near and then came back two more times to gaze at me. I didn’t know if it was a friend or foe. At this point, it could’ve had me because I was too weak from hunger and too cold to care. However, it lost interest and eventually went away.

 

Little did I know, my mother was searching madly for me. She had gone to three different Buddhists to ask where I was and if I was still alive. The Buddhists said I was alive and that they needed to search really deep in the jungle if she wanted to find me alive.

 

I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not when I heard my mother’s voice calling to me. She had the whole village help in the search. I saw people go past my hiding place, but I didn’t come out because I wanted to make sure it wasn’t the soldiers playing a trick on me. Then, from underneath the cracks of the stump, I saw my mother. I knew she was real. I could barely move but I knew I had to get up. As soon as she was close enough, I reached to grab her hand and held on to it as tight as I could. We both cried with relief and joy.

 

That was the last time I had any dealings with the captain. My mother told him she would report his abuse of powers if he did not leave us alone because he would be responsible for whatever happened to me.

 

The Laotian boy I met became my husband when I turned 17.  He lived with my mother and me for a while until we went to live with his family. I didn’t want to leave my mother because she would be alone. But she was a stubborn, strong old women who wouldn’t change her mind.

 

I lived a normal life with my husband, helping the family as everyone worked together. I did various jobs here and there, depending on what was available. One afternoon, I was selling meat at the market when a woman approached me. She wasn’t interested in what I was selling but was curious about my accent. She said my Laotian (language) was stiff and asked if I was originally Laotian. I told her I was Hmong but raised in a Laotian family. She said she was visiting from the United States, from California. She asked if I had parents or knew of their whereabouts. I hadn’t thought about my Hmong parents for many years. It struck a chord in my memory.

 

She offered to help me find them. This seemed impossible, but I figured, what could I lose?  I couldn’t speak Hmong but knew my name and parents’ names.

 

That Hmong woman went back to California and announced my story over the loudspeaker at a New Year celebration, one of the largest Hmong celebrations in 1993. She announced it several times, telling my story of being lost at the Mekong and speaking my name, Pa Houa Lee, daughter of Xia and Nao Tou Lee.

 

My uncle, the one I was tied to during the crossing, was at the New Year. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. For many years, he felt responsible for not being able to save me.

 

Phone lines surged cross-country from California to Appleton, Wis.

 

It was midnight in Laos when a call came through for me. That was the moment of truth. Was this real or not? “Kuv yah Pahoua, koj paus yog kuv txiv?” I asked if he was my father in Laotian and told him who I was. “Yes, I am your father, Nao Tou Lee,” he answered. The years had separated our voices but our hearts were one again. Tears of unprecedented delight filled the air as we talked about our lives and all the years we’d lost. They even sent my soul back to the heavens, because they thought I had not survived.

 

I arrived in the U.S. on February 2, 1998, with my husband and son, and was met by the welcoming arms of my Hmong parents and nine siblings. The heavens protected me all those years because I was never meant to be separated from themm