A Family Story of Freedom
Freedom has been on my mind more than ever. Watching the tragic assassination of Charlie Kirk—an American voice who championed free speech and civic courage—shook me to my core. His death reminded me how fragile freedom truly is, and it brought me back to my own family’s story. In 1979, my parents fled communist Vietnam, surviving two years in a refugee camp on Bidong Island before coming to the U.S. to start over. My father built a landscaping business from nothing; my mother worked long hours in factories—both fighting for the life they had risked everything to reach. Growing up, I took that freedom for granted, never realizing it was bought with sacrifice. Now I see it clearly: freedom isn’t comfort, it’s responsibility. It’s the courage to live with purpose, to speak up, and to protect what generations before us fought so hard to gain.
Freedom has been on my mind more in the past month than ever before. I can’t shake the image of the video I watched of Charlie Kirk being assassinated. It’s replayed in my head again and again.
This man — a voice in the noise, a builder of movements, a believer in speaking one’s truth — was taken so young.
Charlie Kirk, the founder of Turning Point USA, dedicated his life to encouraging young Americans to think critically, engage civically, and take ownership of their beliefs. Whether you agreed with his politics or not, he stood for something powerful — the courage to speak, to question, to stand. His death hit me harder than I expected. It reminded me that freedom isn’t just fragile; it’s constantly under threat. The right to speak, to live, to decide what’s right for yourself — all of it can be silenced in a heartbeat.
That moment made me think about where my understanding of freedom really began — not in America, but long before I was born, with my parents.
Freedom Before I Knew It
In 1979, my parents fled Vietnam in search of something they no longer had — freedom. They boarded small boats packed with others who shared the same hope, eventually landing on Bidong Island in Malaysia. For two long years, they lived in a refugee camp where resources were scarce, guards restricted movement, and life was reduced to survival.
My dad used to tell me stories of how, under the cover of night, he and others would sneak past the guards into a nearby town, risking punishment just to bring back scraps of food for the family. That was freedom in its rawest form — not guaranteed, not comfortable, but something worth risking everything for.
In 1981, the United States granted my parents visas, and with that, they stepped into a new world. It wasn’t easy — freedom never is. My dad built a landscaping business from scratch, working long, backbreaking hours Monday through Friday to provide for us. My mom took on whatever manufacturing jobs she could find, piecing together income to make sure my brother and I never went without. They didn’t have much, but they had choice. They had opportunity. They had the freedom to build a future.
Spoiled by Possibility
Growing up, I didn’t see it that way. We weren’t wealthy, and I thought of freedom as just background noise — something everyone had.
I had the freedom to play sports, hang out with friends, and get into trouble like most teenagers.
But I didn’t realize that those very freedoms — the ability to stumble, to waste time, to fail and still recover — were luxuries my parents never had.
While my dad once risked his life sneaking out of a refugee camp for food, I spent my teenage years sneaking out for fun. The difference wasn’t just generational — it was the direct result of the freedom they earned for me.
Freedom as Responsibility
As Viktor Frankl once wrote in Man’s Search for Meaning:
“Man does not simply exist but always decides what his existence will be, what he will become the next moment. By the same token, every human being has the freedom to change at any instant.”
It took me years to recognize that my freedom was bought with their sacrifice. The freedom my parents fought for wasn’t just about escaping a regime — it was about giving me the chance to live a life where I wasn’t defined by survival.
And now, seeing people silenced, watching voices like Charlie Kirk’s extinguished, I’m reminded that freedom isn’t a birthright — it’s a duty. It’s something we must protect, live with intention, and never take for granted.
Because real freedom isn’t comfort. It’s courage. It’s choice. It’s the will to become more — even when the world tries to stop you.