At New Breath Foundation, we are committed to supporting people directly impacted by deportation and incarceration, ensuring they know they are not forgotten, and sharing a platform for their voices to be heard.
Since the mid-1990s, over 16,000 Southeast Asian refugees have been deported under the Clinton-era Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRIRA), with deportations surging across political administrations. Cambodian deportations increased by 279% between 2018 and 2020 (NBC News) under the Trump administration.
This month, we’re featuring Tony, a Cambodian father and husband who lived in the U.S. for nearly 40 years before facing deportation in 2019. We had the opportunity to connect with him after he dropped off his wife at her job teaching English at an international school. He frequently said, “I was happy” as we spoke. As he reflected on his life in the U.S., he reminisced deeply about his past happiness, along with the current and future happiness of his wife and daughters.
This blog post is his account of his life story, beginning with his resettlement in the U.S. as a young child and refugee and navigating the challenges that followed. He reflects on decades spent building a thriving family and career before facing the harrowing experience of deportation and the ongoing struggle to assimilate in Cambodia.
Here’s Tony’s story, delivered from his perspective.
From the Khmer Genocide to Bates Street, San Diego
My earliest memories of my life in Cambodia are of hiding in the water well with my family. I was born in May 1975 during the Khmer Genocide. As a child, I remember seeing dead bodies around me and hearing gunfire and explosions. My family never explained what happened. I could feel the tension whenever the subject came up, so I didn’t ask.
When I was around seven years old, I settled in the U.S. through sponsorship from my older sister. I remember walking through the San Diego airport, being afraid because I had never seen different people of color or such huge buildings. I began to feel safe and happy here, knowing we were no longer under attack, we had enough food, and my mom and family were all together.
We stayed in an apartment complex in San Diego with other Cambodians. I remember the graffiti on the walls, hearing sirens, and seeing police chase people out of windows. I’ll always remember the name of the street – Bates Street.
I was happy in elementary school. Learning English was challenging, but it was a good time. I felt safe and happy. Walking to school made me happy.
Things changed around 7th grade when I started getting bullied. Classmate bullies called me racial slurs and made fun of my birth name, Mannaka. I picked up the name “Tony” while working in Nashville, Tennessee, in 1998 and have gone by it since then. I was never able to ask my mom what my birth name means in Cambodian.
When Hardship Turned into Happiness
My struggles began in middle school when my performance started declining, and I didn’t know where to turn for help. My family wasn’t familiar with the U.S. school system, and I tried to avoid my bullies by skipping some classes and hiding in the bathroom. This sense of hardship followed me through my teenage years into my early 20s. It felt like no matter how hard I tried to be a good person, bad luck was always around the corner. It came to a peak when I experienced betrayal in one of my closest relationships. In anger, I made a mistake that resulted in a 3-year probation and an order to take a 1-year anger management course, which I completed.
Everything changed in 2003 when I met my wife. Before that, I often felt lost and frustrated with myself, constantly questioning why I couldn’t succeed in life. But from the beginning of our relationship, I knew she was the one for me and that our life together could be different. Our life was joyful and filled with happiness. We had two daughters, and my wife stayed home, caring for our children and running our household. She was very involved in our daughters’ school activities. I did my best to be a good husband and father, which was always important to me. That meant being a role model, a protector, and someone who made my family feel safe and loved. I wanted to give my family the happiness I didn’t have growing up. I didn’t want them to face the struggles I went through; I wanted them to succeed.
In 2004, I saw a classified ad for shipyard welding with the U.S. Navy and began as a low-level welder with just one certification. I loved learning the processes – it was challenging but fascinating to see how everything came together. I often stayed late to learn and practice other welding techniques, earning six welding certifications over time.
After several years of welding and repairing Navy vessels, I wanted to learn the Navy Military Standard 1689 procedures and how to read blueprints. I dedicated about a year to this, studying blueprints at home after work. The company president recognized my contributions and capabilities; I was great at coordinating with my team and implementing safety procedures. He knew I could handle any job I was given. Over the years, I received numerous raises and promotions until I became Ship Superintendent. I was proud of my work, leading a crew of over 60 members and supporting the Navy’s Department of Defense. I had never imagined I could make it this far. If given the chance, I would have joined the Navy in my early 20s before my troubles began.
Throughout my 15 years of service with the DOD, deportation was in the back of my mind, but it didn’t feel like a real possibility. I always followed ICE’s instructions, and I’d always hoped that they might give me a chance. Due to the 1996 IIRIRA Act, I faced double punishment if convicted of a felony. Ultimately, this law revoked my status as a refugee, green card holder, and permanent resident.
Deportation: When the Looming Shadow Became a Dark Reality
I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I received the notification letter from ICE in the mail on March 13, 2019. My heart sank. The letter instructed me to check in on a specific date, about three weeks later, to be taken into custody and put in confinement. I felt my soul drain out of my body. My wife and I cried, not knowing what to do or what would happen to our family.
So many thoughts raced through my mind, mainly about my family. What would happen to my wife and children? I was consumed with worry. No one around us had gone through this before, and we had no idea who could help. Deportation had always been a shadow over my life, but I thought, somehow, it wouldn’t happen to me.
A few weeks later, I checked into the ICE detention center in San Diego. My daughters, wife, and younger sister accompanied me. I was repeatedly transferred by bus or plane: first to Texas for interviews, then brought back to California, and finally transferred back to Texas for deportation. If I could give any advice, I would say to drink water and use the bathroom before you travel because they won’t let you do either until the destination. For me, the transportation process with ICE was one of the hardest experiences. They cuffed us at the legs, waist, and wrists before placing us on a bus or plane for 3 to 5 hours. We were usually given just two pieces of bread, bologna, and an apple or orange.
Sometimes, we had to stop overnight in another state, where we were held in an extremely cold ICE facility without blankets, often for an undisclosed amount of time. The way ICE handled transportation was dangerous, and I could easily see how people could lose their lives due to such treatment. For months, I had nothing but the shirt from my wife on my back. I made collect calls to her as frequently as possible. My wife paid for the calls and also sent money for me to buy food in the detention center. We knew we were running out of funds, but she wanted me to feel our family’s support. Even though we told our daughters to focus on their schooling and not worry about Dad, I felt deep sorrow as the reality of my deportation approached. I could feel my wife’s stress; all I could do was comfort her with words, telling her to take care of herself and the kids.
On July 4, 2019, I landed alone in Cambodia.
Before my deportation, our oldest daughter had been accepted into a great school, and she was looking forward to enrollment. But everything changed when I was deported. It was a tough time for my family. They struggled to find stable housing and food. They were evicted in the middle of the night by extended family members and had to seek shelter from church or sleep in the car. My wife also endured blame and hateful comments from people, telling her and our family to “die in a ditch.” I felt powerless, unable to protect or support them from afar. Some people who promised to help only ended up verbally abusing her. When you lose everything, you feel powerless and at the mercy of others. All we can do is stay silent and keep our heads down.
For the next two years, my wife did everything she could to care for the family in the U.S. We spoke every day, and I could see how tired she was in our video calls, the dark circles under her eyes. Despite our efforts, she couldn’t find stable work. I sent her whatever I could – $100, $150, sometimes $200 a month – from my $300 monthly salary in Cambodia. My first job here at a hotel in Siem Reap paid $180 a month, which is close to the average salary of around $200. I worked six days a week, 10 to 11 hours a day. Fortunately, a friend helped me find a better job as a security guard at an NGO with a monthly salary of $300.
After some time, my wife found a job as an accountant for San Diego County, but with rent and bills, it still wasn’t enough. I felt so guilty that I told her she should find someone who loves her and can take care of her because I didn’t want her to suffer with me. She responded, asking why I would say such a thing. She said that she would never leave me, no matter what.
Eventually, in 2022, my wife and I decided she and my daughters should come live with me in Cambodia. Although I didn’t want her to see or experience how hard life would be here, she insisted on coming. With much gratitude to a GoFundMe set up by a former colleague, we were able to cover the flight costs. However, just before boarding at LAX, my oldest daughter ran away. We were extremely worried and later found out she was safe with a friend. My wife was able to contact her, but our daughter refused to show her face on FaceTime and blocked us across multiple apps. I can only imagine she was processing the anger, pain, and confusion of my deportation and her situation in her way.
Life in Cambodia
Living in Cambodia has been a huge adjustment. The landscape is nice, with beautiful temples, and Khmer food is very good. I’ve also met some incredibly kind locals. My wife and younger daughter are my source of strength here, though I miss my older daughter very much. Another hard part for my wife and me has been finding jobs with decent pay. I can speak a little Khmer but can’t read or write it, and my wife, being Thai and Hmong, has her own difficulties.
It’s hard to adapt when you feel stuck with additional discrimination based on appearance and age. When I first arrived, I had nothing and was ripped off left and right.
Before my wife and daughter joined me in Cambodia, I carried a heavy burden of stress, depression, and worry. The time apart was incredibly challenging, and I can feel that my mind isn’t as sharp as it once was, likely due to the lasting effects of those several years spent in isolation. These burdens lifted a little when my family arrived. And when I met Elijah from New Light Wellness, a wellness organization serving Southeast Asian-impacted community members and families. He held space and listened to what I’d been through, and his support helped lift the stress and depression I had carried for two years. His presence reminded me that I wasn’t alone or forgotten. KVAO was also a huge help, guiding me through Khmer procedures and getting the necessary documents. I’m so glad that we have KVAO in Cambodia.
My older daughter is now 19 years old. She ran away in LA before her planned departure to join me in Cambodia. I imagine she’s upset or disappointed with how her life has turned out, or maybe even ashamed of her family. There are many complicated emotions to process, and she may need time. I continue to reach out in the ways I can and make myself available to her. I miss her very much, and I hope she opens the lines of communication again.
My younger daughter, now 15, rarely smiles anymore, and I can see the sadness in her eyes. I do what I can to bring a smile to her face, whether it’s taking her to the beach or for ice cream and pizza. My biggest priority is caring for my family and doing what I need to do for them.
My Hopes and My Truth
I always thought the U.S. was a land of second chances, but the reality of deportation tells a different story. The laws can be heartless, and while some deportee brothers and sisters adjust and find happiness, I wouldn’t wish the experience I went through on anyone.
Deportation isn’t just a legal process – it’s a cruel system that tears families apart, leaving loved ones to face immense hardship. It destroys lives, especially of the children impacted. I can’t imagine being part of a system that causes such suffering.
I hope for a future where laws are in place to prevent deportations or at least allow those who have been deported to visit their families in the U.S. once a year. I hope that people can return to the U.S. Even though my wife and youngest daughter are with me now, rebuilding our lives has been a struggle. I try to bring happiness to our family and put smiles on their faces. Losing connection with my 19-year-old daughter weighs heavily on my heart, and I pray that she will reach out to me one day.
My wife and I are working hard to find stable jobs and save money, preparing for a future where she may need to return to the U.S., even if we no longer have a home there. Despite the challenges, we focus on staying positive and doing everything we can to make our youngest daughter happy here.
I hope more people take the time to listen to our stories and understand how issues like incarceration and deportation uniquely affect Southeast Asian communities, shaped by our histories in and with the U.S.
Thank you to NBF and its readers for not forgetting about me.
—
To learn more about Southeast Asian deportation, its underlying issues, and ways to support, visit New Breath Foundation’s Kites to Southeast Asia Resources page.
Note: This article, written by NBF blog writer Julie Kim, is based on interviews with Tony and has been edited for clarity.