An Immigration Story:

Vietnam’s Welcome, and Its Goodbye

Arriving in Vietnam

I came to Vietnam on a bright Tuesday afternoon. The air was thick with the smells of motorbike exhaust, fried bánh xèo batter, and wet concrete. It was supposed to be a short stay—three months to see someplace new, to taste adventure. But three months turned into nearly a year of visa extensions, each one bought with fees, paperwork, and the hope that I could stretch the magic just a little longer.

Becoming Home

I settled into a two-bedroom house in Hội An. It had traditional wooden doors, a large garden, and more flowers and potted plants than I could count. Bougainvillea spilled over the gate in bright cascades of pink. Every morning, I opened the doors and watched the neighbors sweeping their doorsteps or sipping tea; in the evenings the children played on my quiet street as their fathers gathered for a cold beer. Life was slow, peaceful, and every moment pure joy.

I followed all the rules. Paid every renewal fee. Submitted every form. Waited in the endless lines at the Immigration Department, clutching my passport like a child with a teddy bear. Every few months, I did the dance: pay, wait, hope.

The Notice

Then, one morning, I woke up to an email from the Immigration Office.

Notice of Termination of Residency Permission
Your visa status has been revoked due to recent regulatory updates. You are required to depart Vietnam within 14 days. Failure to comply may result in detention and deportation proceedings.

That was it. No warning. No explanation that made sense.

I went to the immigration office to plead my case. I waited four hours for a ten-minute meeting with a stony-faced official who barely looked up from his desk.

“But I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said, voice catching. “I’ve followed every rule.”

He didn’t even sigh. He just pushed a thin stack of papers across the table. “Your appeal is denied. You must leave. No exceptions.”

I walked out into the glare of the parking lot. My heart was hammering, my ears ringing. I was trying to figure out what to do next when I heard footsteps behind me.

The Arrest

Before I could turn around, five masked men in black uniforms closed in. They had rifles and body armor. One of them shouted something in Vietnamese I didn’t understand. Another grabbed my arms.

“Wait—” I started, but before I could finish, they shoved me hard against the pavement. My cheek scraped the concrete. Someone jammed a knee into my back. My wrists were twisted behind me and locked into handcuffs.

I was terrified. I was unsure what was happening. I didn’t have any idea where I was going.

They dragged me to an unmarked black van and shoved me inside. The doors slammed shut, and everything went dark except for a single strip of fluorescent light overhead.

Disappeared

No one spoke to me. The van drove for what felt like hours. My mind was racing: Was I being deported? Arrested? Disappeared?

Eventually, we stopped. The doors opened onto a dimly lit concrete hallway. I was hauled out, still cuffed, and marched past blank doors and metal grates. No one explained anything. No one answered when I asked, voice cracking, “Where are you taking me?”

Finally, they locked me in a small room with a metal cot bolted to the floor. There were no windows. Just a flickering light and the smell of bleach.

I sat there, shaking, thinking about the reports I’d read back home—people in the U.S. who were taken from their houses or workplaces and disappeared into detention centers. Some held for months without charges. Some deported without ever seeing a judge.

I’d read those stories. I’d shared them on social media. I’d been horrified. But until that moment, I hadn’t truly felt the cold panic of not knowing if you’d ever be allowed to go home.

Hours passed—or maybe days. Time had no shape in that place. Occasionally, someone would open the door and slide in a plastic tray of rice and fish. No words. No eye contact.

I thought of my little house in Hội An, with the flowers and plants I’d cared for. My books. The life I’d made. All of it was out there somewhere, just beyond the walls I couldn’t see past.

And there, in the middle of my adopted country, I realized that sometimes being an immigrant means your humanity is only as solid as the paper your name is stamped on.

Remember This

This story is fictional for me. But for immigrants in the United States, this is not fiction at all. It happens every day—people woken up before dawn, taken away by armed officers, locked in detention centers without warning. If I were lucky in this scenario, maybe I’d simply be sent back to a safe country. But many people don’t have that option. For them, deportation can mean persecution, poverty, or death.

If this had happened to me, would you be upset?

Would you be scared? Would you be angry? Because it is happening—to families, to neighbors, to people who simply want the chance to belong somewhere.

And if you feel like there’s nothing you can do about what’s happening in the U.S. right now, you’re wrong. There is something you can do. You can speak up. You can vote. You can donate. You can share stories like this one so no one can say they didn’t know.

✊ What You Can Do—Right Now

Stop telling yourself “There’s nothing I can do.”

That is an excuse. And honestly? I’m tired of hearing it.

Every time you scroll past, look away, or say “Well, that’s politics,” you’re choosing your comfort over someone else’s survival. You are deciding that your momentary convenience is more important than their humanity.

If this story made you feel even a flicker of fear or outrage, good. Sit with it. And then get off your ass and act.

This isn’t about politics. It isn’t about the color of anyone’s skin. It’s about human rights. It’s about treating people with dignity and compassion. It’s about remembering that almost every single one of us comes from families who, at some point, were immigrants looking for safety, opportunity, or freedom.

And honestly? I’m ashamed of you if you read this and still do nothing. If you would stand up for me if this were happening to me, then you should stand up for them. If you would open your door for me, if you would call your congressperson for me, if you would put up a sign for me—do it for them.

Here are just a few ways you can stop being a bystander:

✅ Make it visible.
Print a sign and hang it in your window: “No Human Being Is Illegal” or “We Stand With Immigrants” Cover the door of your business, your church, or the community bulletin board.
Put a sign in your yard so everyone knows exactly where you stand.

✅ Create a safe space.
Offer a place for immigrants in your community to shelter if they need help.
Let people know you are someone they can call when they’re in danger.

✅ Use your damn voice.
Call your representatives and demand they protect immigrant rights.
Don’t know what to say? Here you go—no excuses: 5 Calls

✅ Raise hell.
Share these stories on your social media.
Talk about it at work, at school, at the dinner table.
Stop pretending this isn’t happening.

✅ Give your time or money.
Support organizations fighting back:

• RAICES – legal aid for immigrant families
• ACLU Immigrants’ Rights Project – defending rights in court
• National Immigration Law Center – advocacy and litigation

✅ Be braver than you’ve been.
You don’t have to show up to a protest. But you sure as hell can’t sit idly by while human beings are dragged out of their homes in the middle of the night by masked men with no warrants or justification other than the color of their skin.

If you’re waiting for a sign that it’s time to give a damn, this is it.

Stop telling yourself you can’t do anything. Start doing something. Right now.