Fifty years since the Fall of Saigon.
Fifty years of the Vietnamese diaspora.

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This milestone is often viewed as a celebration of the Vietnamese community — our resilience, our contributions, our cultural pride. And while that is true, it is not the whole story. To me, this anniversary is not only about Vietnamese people; it is also about the community at large — those who offered kindness, acceptance, and a place for us to rebuild. It is about the enduring human capacity to welcome others and to stand together for shared values, especially freedom and democracy.

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When two million Vietnamese risked their lives by sea, they were not simply fleeing a place called Vietnam. They were fleeing from an ideology — one that punished dissent, crushed enterprise, and demanded loyalty to a single narrative. They were not escaping war itself, or violence, or poverty — though all of those were real. They were escaping despotism. They were choosing, at great cost, to stand firm in their belief that freedom matters — that democracy is worth everything.

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And so the fall of one Saigon gave rise to many Little Saigons across the globe — communities built not just with cultural pride, but on a foundational belief in liberty. Vietnamese community in San Diego was no different. Like many others, it was seeded by refugees who arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs, the weight of survival on their shoulders, and the will to rebuild.

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Let us be honest: freedom and democracy do not come easy. Not for our community. Not for any community. Our version of it was bought with lives lost at sea, in re-education camps, and in the shadows of history. But perhaps even more astonishing than the tragedies are the burdens quietly carried by the survivors.

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Those first waves of refugees arrived in a country whose language they did not speak, whose systems they did not understand. Their degrees meant nothing. Their savings were gone. Their skills didn’t transfer. And yet, they moved forward. Not because they had time to grieve, to pause, to process — but because they couldn’t afford to stop. They had families to feed. Children to raise. Loved ones to help rescue. Communities to rebuild.

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They had no time to cry.
They had no room to break.
They carried on, not for themselves — but for those who came after.

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To me, that is the meaning of 50 years.
Fifty years is a long time. But in the life of a refugee community that started with nothing — no capital, no representation, no roadmap — it is also the blink of an eye.

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Today, we have roofs over our heads, food on our tables, careers that support our families, and children who speak English as their first language. That is not a small thing. That is a remarkable thing. And it is only the beginning.

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The next 50 years must be different.

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We must work harder to be seen, to be heard, to be recognized not just as a self-contained community, but as full participants in the larger American story. True belonging is not measured by how far we’ve come alone, but by how much we are invited into the conversations that shape our collective future — in education, government, business, arts, and policy.

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Only when we are truly seen and heard can we say that we belong — not on the margins, but at the table.

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Fifty years ago, we escaped a regime that silenced voices and erased identities.
Today, let us honor our journey by claiming our voice — and using it.
Let us make the next 50 years not just about survival, but about visibility, influence, and inclusion.

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That is the kind of community worth building.
That is the legacy we owe to those who never made it to shore — and to those who did, but never stopped paddling forward.

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By Tử Hà