MAI HERSTORIES March 8, 2017 Fresno, CA This zine is a collection of stories and arts depicting Southeast Asian America Vol. 1 - Stories of Southeast Asian American women

TABLE OF CONTENT Pg. 2 - Dedication See Xiong Pg. 3 - Hmong or American? Yeng Xiong Pg. 4 - Pure Joy Douachee Vang Pg. 6 - Kab Yeeb Pachia Lucy Vang Pg. 7 - Sanity Through Writing Judy Duran Pg. 10 - This is Me Jodie Ban Pg. 11 - Hmong Women Soua Xiong Pg. 13 - Indirect Love Debbie Sayachack Pg. 14 - Little Sun Seed Gail Gaujyihoua Yang Pg. 15 - I Am a Hmong Daughter Shania Saoleng Vang Pg. 17 - Hmong Couture Lylena Yang Pg. 18 - My Cambodian Story Sokhomaly Suon Pg. 20 - Contributor Biographies Pg. 22 - Acknowledgements
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To our mothers: This volume is dedicated to our Refugee mothers; Who, with dirt between her toes, Water to her lips, Carried on her back a Generation of daughters Of the Secret War. This is to my mother, Who didn’t eat so She can buy me shoes. This is to my sisters, American-born, Never American enough. This is to my grandmothers, Whom I had never felt in my arms, For sheltering my spirits. See Xiong
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Hmong or American?
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YENG XIONG
Douachee Vang
Pure Joy Kaj Ntshiab’s Niam moved around in bed to get more comfortable. She then cleared her throat and began. “A long time ago, your Niam Tais came from a place called Laos in Southeast Asia. She and I were fleeing from what was called the Secret War in Laos. At that time, I was about the same age as you – eight. The two of us ran through a big and dense jungle for many days and many nights with other families. We were all trying to reach the Mekong River at the edge of the forest so that we could cross it and make it into Thailand. So, after countless days and nights of tirelessly running we all finally reached the river. We all jumped in and swam as fast as we could; many people didn’t make it across, but for those who did, we eventually made it into the safety of Thailand. After spending a few months in Thailand, your Niam Tais and I were able to get a sponsor from America. Now, a sponsor in this situation is someone who is willing to pay, support, and care for another family to go live in America and start a new life. So, when this sponsor helped your Niam Tais and me, we both had to fly to America in a big airplane. While on the plane, your Niam Tais and I heard gossip about how America was all white: meaning that there were only white people and that the land and trees and anything that we could possibly imagine in America was white.” “Really?” Kaj Ntshiab exclaimed, puzzled. “Why?” “Because,” her Niam explained, “everyone back in Laos used to make rumors that America was white, so we just believed in it since we didn’t know any better. But not only that, elders made rumors that Americans ate humans – that they were cannibals!” Kaj Ntshiab shivered from fear and grabbed onto her Niam harder. “That’s scary!” she screamed. Her Niam held her closer and then chuckled. “It’s ok, it was just a lie that they told us. Many of the elders only said that so that us Hmong people would stay in Laos and not flee to America.” Kaj Ntshiab released her grip from her mom’s body and asked, “And then what happened to you and Niam Tais?” “The funny thing is,” her Niam continued, “when Niam Tais and I arrived to America we really thought that it was all white like how the elders had described. It was snowing at that time and all the snow covered the trees, the ground, and the buildings. We were scared and thought that maybe the elders in Laos were telling the truth after all. But luckily our sponsor and a translator told us that it was just snow.” “And what was it like growing up?” Kaj Ntshiab asked, further intrigued. “Well,” her Niam continued, “I remember that I didn’t like shoes because I never wore shoes in Laos. That’s why even today I don’t wear high heels often and would 4
Douachee Vang rather be barefoot most of the time. But even though I didn’t like shoes, I loved getting new clothes from the Salvation Army and other charities. I was always excited when it was time to get new clothes because I never had so many outfits before. Other than that, it was hard at home because I had to help Niam Tais with all of the chores since it was just me and her in our family.” “Niam,” Kaj Ntshiab questioned, “what about Yawm Txiv? You haven’t said anything about him.” Her Niam became silent. She then said, “Your Niam Tais left your Yawm Txiv a long time ago in Laos before the Secret War. Because of that, everyone kind of ignored her and didn’t talk to her much, or worse, they would talk behind her back.” She continued to say, “In our culture, it is never right for a woman to leave her husband. She is just supposed to ‘ua siab ntev’ [have a big heart and be patient].” Kaj Ntshiab frowned. She then said, “So is that what’s happening to us right now? Because you and I left Txiv, everyone is acting weird around us?” Her Niam hesitantly said, “Yes, that is sort of what’s happening.” However, she continued to say confidently, “But you know what, Kaj Ntshiab?” “Yes, Niam?” Kaj Ntshiab replied with a smile. “Don’t be afraid by what our Hmong culture and people say or think. Having a family with only one parent is not such a bad thing like what everyone keeps saying. I have you, and as long as we have each other we can make it through anything. Besides, Niam Tais was able to do it alone with just me and her, and thanks to Niam Tais’s hard work of raising me up I now have a brave, smart, and beautiful daughter like you. You are the greatest thing to have ever happened to me and I don’t regret anything that’s happened. No matter what anyone says Kaj Ntshiab, just remember this: don’t let them intimidate you – don’t let them make decisions for you or pressure you into staying in one place or situation forever. There is such a big world out there that you can discover, and you have the potential to do anything and everything that you desire.” Kaj Ntshiab hugged her Niam some more and decided to close her eyes. It was very late now and Kaj Ntshiab’s eyes were getting heavier and heavier, just as the stars and moon outside grew brighter and larger. Kaj Ntshiab quickly drifted off into sleep, and after some time her Niam slowly untucked herself out. She pulled up and fixed the covers over Kaj Ntshiab and then kneeled beside her bed, gently moving the hair from Kaj Ntshiab’s face away. “Good night my sweet daughter, Kaj Ntshiab. May your life always be full of purity and joy just like your name.”
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Kab Yeeb pink petals so fragile they break at the touch of my fingertips melt into the palm of my hands. my grandmother use to cut open the bulbs slit by slit and my eyes would grow big watching them bleed a lustrous milky substance day by day drying brown as they aged in the sun. wilting. i watched my grandfather clean his pipe neatly. disassemble the pieces. wrap them in leaflets. burying it in a box underneath his bed as the smoke lay thick in the air. it billows to this day… the memories of my fading youth. the memories of our fading youth. Pachia Lucy Vang
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Sanity through Writing Judy Duran After hearing Nobel Laureate Elie Wiesel speak at a small gathering for student writers and journalists and then at a campus-wide lecture on the death penalty and human dignity, I went home inspired to write. Wiesel said he used writing to keep himself sane after the Holocaust. I wanted some sanity in my life and felt I had a few stories to share, too. The initial picture I had in mind was a war pieta, where a woman cried over a fallen soldier. I had come across the image online some days earlier. The war pieta was derived from Michelangelo’s Pietà, the sculpture of Mary holding the dead body of Jesus. As I searched for evocative words to describe the image, I became eight again, the year I witnessed a pieta. It was the break of dawn when I bolted out of bed and ran to the side of my siblings, who were standing at the window looking out to the backyard. Our little beagle mix barked frantically as he jerked on the chain that restrained him to the fence. The back-porch lamp cast a sepia spotlight on my mother. She cradled my oldest sister in her arms next to the young peach tree that still produced sour fruit. Her white tshirt was soaked in my sister’s blood. And she wailed and wailed. I looked to the right and saw a police officer kick the handgun out of my father’s hand. My father didn’t do it, but he probably felt as though he did. My oldest sister was sixteen when she took my father’s handgun to her head and attempted suicide. My family (I included) was so ashamed of her, we never tried to put ourselves in her shoes to understand why she did what she did. My mother blamed my sister’s boyfriend’s mother for not approving my sister. The shaman blamed the Vietnamese soldier that had died “a long time ago” in the small wooded area behind the backyard fence. It was this soldier that possessed my sister to do what she did, the shaman said. Someone blamed the dog…and during one of the shamanistic rituals, our little beagle mix was hammered in the head and sacrificed. The hope was that my sister would
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return to her “normal” self. The chain of blames didn’t heal our hurt; it just perpetuated suicide as a stigma in the Hmong community. After my sister’s incident, I became a language broker for my parents. I learned how to speak with doctors, social workers, and utility bill companies on my parents’ behalf. I memorized addresses, phone numbers, my parents’ social security numbers, and everyone’s date of birth. Coming from a family of 13 (my parents, 9 siblings, and my grandma)—that was a lot of numbers to store in my brain. The closer I worked with my parents, the more I realized that my parents’ inability to verbally navigate this society was an imprisoning handicap. I watched them labored away their youths, doing monotonous work in incarcerating factories for barely living wage. I never asked what they would have been if they had received the same education I had. The hypothetical responses were too unjust to endure. I didn’t want to see their shame and disappointment of life. My parents had migrated across the country from California to North Carolina in the mid-1990s because of the vast jobs in the textile manufacturing companies. When employers began to outsource labor to companies overseas, my parents had to find new jobs. My parents were not literate in English, so I completed their paperwork for them. In the boxes, I scribbled their personal information. And each finished application revealed a shallow narrative of who they were. Name. Lee. Race. Asian. Occupation. Factory worker. My mother entered a pre-cooked food company, but my father became unemployed. For years, my father drove from factory to factory trying to convince employers that despite his meager English skills and non-existent American education records, he had decades of experience doing manual assembly labor work. For years, I observed my father sitting in solitude staring off into the distance as he smoked. Securing the cigarette between his fingers, he sucked away its life. With each inhale, the orange ring of flame traveled closer to the end, burning the tobacco into ashes. Once what was left of the cigarette was of no use to him, he ground it against the pavement, putting to death its orange flame. 8
Sitting in my dorm room after the Wiesel lecture, I drafted a piece I titled “Sight.” Sight, because I wanted to put into words what I saw when I was eight. She cradled him in her muddy red arms just like his first days. "My child! Oh-my child!" she wailed. His sparkling eyes, submerged with salty water, stared vulnerably at the only woman he had ever loved in his brief life. He struggled to comfort her with words, the only warmth he thought he could accomplish with the energy left in him, but all that emerged was a forced huff of breath. Surrendering to the evil that was gnawing in him, he reluctantly sealed the sea to his soul allowing only two crystal clear streams to burn down the filth on the sides of his face, and onto the arms of his beloved. His last breath, smelt of her nourishment, vibrated through her senses and incinerated her heart. Shaking her head insanely, furious tears showered the rotting leaves. She stopped to gaze at her pride, but her lips obstinately trembled, and her voice released a deathly hum. She gently pulled his blue, lifeless face up under her chin and wrapped both arms around his neck. Closing her eyes, she chanted to the one above. I thought about what my mother must have felt holding onto her first born that grim morning. I wonder how many promises she made to her gods just to keep my sister’s heart beating. What did she beg for and what did she vowed in exchange for my sister’s life? My sister was the language broker before me and my other siblings. She was my parents’ right-hand, she was their eyes, their mouths, their ears. She helped them negotiate cultural and language borders. Her attempted suicide decapitated my parents. Reflecting and writing on my sister’s incident repeatedly through different lenses over the years has planted a seed of empathy in the areas of shame in my life. Writing is the water that carries nutrients to my barren fields. It is an instrument for reconceptualizing my life through the humanization of my experiences. Writing gives me the authority to make sense of what I have done and what has been done to me, and essentially, it keeps me sane.
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If I could go to sleep and wake up to change, I’ll gladly accept it If being who I am is wrong, then I don’t want to be me I struggled not because of my sexuality But because I know I’d be condemned for it So what do I do knowing who I am at such a young age? I hid who I was to the people that I loved Because being who I am is an abomination you said Jodie Ban I cried my heart out and drank myself to sleep I contemplated suicide and attempted to kill myself I poured out my heart and made deals with God, but I’m still me Why am I still like this? Why God? Why me? Why this? If You are who You say You are and You don’t make mistakes… Then why am I still this way? You said in Psalm 139 that you knit me together in my mother’s womb, You said that I am fearfully and wonderfully made, You said that I’m your master piece, God, what happened to me? Did You get distracted when you were forming me? What happened to me, God? Why does the world hate who you created? Why do they judge me and look at me differently? I am still me… We are still on the same team I love You and want people to know who You are, God. But I’m not like them… They don’t understand I wish I wasn’t like this I wish I could change who I am I wish they could see Your Son in me, God And not this disgusting thing that you created I don’t get it, God I don’t understand any of it They said that it’s better off if people like me stay single I thought that they were right I thought that this is how it’s supposed to be The pain was just too much The heartache was just unbearable Knowing deep down I could never allow myself to be in love I had to learn to shut my feelings off I had to learn to be content in my misery Love isn’t for people like me, but only people like them Through the tears and the struggles Through the dark days and sleepless nights I choose You and I choose love I choose to believe that You are good I choose to believe that You are sovereign I choose to believe that You are full of grace I choose to believe that no matter who I choose to love, thatYou chose to send Your Son to die in my place for people like me.
This is Me
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Hmong Women Soua Xiong Xiong’s ‘Suffocation’ series expresses her thoughts on her culture’s norms towards women. She was always told what she could and could not do; to always follow her culture’s beliefs and values, and to always be an obedient child. With this, she felt the frustration of being forced to fit her culture’s expectations. In this series, Xiong used parts of the traditional Hmong gown to represent the expected role of a Hmong female. Nudity is a taboo subject in her culture; therefore, she decided to photograph her models nude. Crossing boundaries within her culture is a challenge; however, these challenges help Xiong express her thoughts and also shape her as an individual.
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Indirect Love
Debbie Sayachack
When I did well in school, My grandparents would say, “Dee.” When I helped them with paper work Because they didn’t know how to read or speak English, They’d say Dee. They used to tell their friends and neighbors How smart I was. But never say it directly to me. Every achievement, They showed their appreciation by saying Dee And brag to everyone about me. No hugs, or kisses, or the words: I love you. I guess this is something Laotian parents didn’t do. Everyone knew they loved me. Yet, to me, their love had always been Indirectly. Their way of loving was through praising me To others, but not directly saying it to me. I envied the little girls on t.v. They were Hugged and kissed. Hair stroked and combed. Their parents would say those three words unswervingly. But, to have them love me like that would Take away what I am and what I have become. It would take away what’s left of their Identity: the little Laotian refugee family. It would be shaping them into a typical Extension of an American family. It would mean Our new identity is the Asian-American family. To desire that is to change everything they Have known. Everything they have been. It would be To reproduce what we want them to be, And that is not the typical little Laotian family. Dee means “good” in Laotian. For me, it means that I am good enough to be Recognized and loved by them, Even if it is indirectly.
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Little Sun Seed
Gail Gaujyihoua Yang
It’s going to be a long journey. The little monsters living inside your head will grow stronger (and stronger) each and every day from the very moment you start to wish you were born differently. People will ask you questions, and maybe, maybe in the beginning you will answer who you are with a toothy smile. You will tell them what your name is and what it means, but maybe all you will get are blank stares and more questions, “So… where do you come from then? Does that mean you are-?” And you think, it’s fine at first (and it is because they don’t know), until your little heart starts to become weary and you too start questioning yourself, “Who am I? What am I?” You will lose yourself and wish to be and become someone else. A beautiful woman who has soft golden locks and deep blue eyes, or a wealthy man who lives proudly in his respectful country. You will cry through the coldest of the cold winter nights and tumble during the rainiest spring days as you weave and search your way to find an answer. You will feel small, and looking at your calloused hands and sun-kissed skin, you will whisper, “I wish I was someone else – I wish I was different; born with a background, a history – something (someone who) people will recognize when I say my ethnicity.” But you are different because you are a sun seed. You may not find the exact answer you’re looking for, but embrace yourself because you will be powerful. You (do) have a beautiful culture and an extraordinary history, and learning (understanding) this, you will have knowledge and destroy the voices echoing inside your head. You will make a difference when you finally accept your native language and cultural differences. So what if you are a little different – with fair olive skin and jet black hair who speaks a language no one else seems to know or understand where exactly you come from. You are a sun seed who will grow and become many things – a brave, independent woman or an ambitious, humble man. You will blossom and thrive to become a great leader, teaching lost individuals about embracing who they are. You will learn more about your mother (and yourself) as you listen to the journeys of your grandmother who carried your mother on her back as they made way to escape from the secret war in Vietnam. You will make picture books of the folktales you heard from your grandfather who heard them from his grandmother. You will create stories of your father’s memory as a young man who left Laos to start a new life in the new world, and when you grow a little older, you will find that your father was in fact a wise man who loved learning his family roots, culture, and history to his very last breath. Remember though that through this, you will see the dark side of the bloody mess the war had left behind – the old ways your parents had lived before your time, and the hardships your great grandparents and their great grandparents experienced as young teenagers. Respect them, learn from them, but don’t let a new profound darkness of your culture consume you. Remember that there should be a change in order for everyone to grow. It’s going to be a long journey, but trust me, it will be worth it. For this is my story as well.
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i am a hmong daughter Shania Saoleng Vang I am Hmong. But sometimes people think I’m from Hong Kong. My family came here in 1980, let me tell you, They were scared to death the first time they saw King Kong. BUT, here they are in Land of the Free, Full of dreams and opportunities. Daddy always said be good, Daddy always said make rice, But I have all this homework I need a life, Always pressuring me so one day I’d be a good wife. i am a hmong daughter. Be a doctor they said, Come back to help your people they said, Do what make you happy they said, But what makes me happy isn’t what they accept. Daddy always said you have to do better, Daddy always said wash dishes, What if one day I follow my dreams instead of being in the ER doing stitches. Here we are taught to be proud of who we are and what we represent, But how am I supposed to do that when the people I love at home, Deny what makes me content. Don't dye your hair, Don’t go anywhere, Don’t wear ripped jeans, I didn’t raise you to not be clean. 15
i am a hmong daughter. You don’t have a mother so don’t make a fool of yourself. You are not going to receive help from anybody else, Just be a doctor and live your life well. Don’t talk back to your elders Just smile and nod, But every time I do that I feel like I’m a fraud. Speaking your mind isn’t good Just go in the kitchen and cook. And no you can’t go study out of town Stay here where it’s safe and sound. You know what? Sometimes I don’t understand this English reading, I don’t know what’s wrong... But I do know I’m starting to lose my Hmong. A disappointment at school, A disappointment at home, I don’t know which is worse, But I feel so alone. Daddy always said don’t get too happy, Daddy always said work harder, But if I never heard you once say you were proud... How am I supposed to conquer? kuv yog ib tus ntxhais hmoob. i am a hmong daughter.
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Hmong Couture, Lylena Yang
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Sokhomaly Suon
My Cambodian Story Cambodia is a country in Southeast Asia, locating between Thailand, Vietnam, and Laos. After its independence from France in1954, Cambodia maintains its political position as a neutral and peaceful country. However, in 1970 the Vietnam War spread out to Cambodia by the communist Vietcong troupes. They brought both communism ideologies and warfare. The political change from Royalism to Liberalism affected all Cambodian citizens. The War spread throughout Cambodia, bombarding sounds from Air crafts B52, F111 aircrafts, T28, lunching of 122 mm rockets, 105, 120 Artillery and other guns could be heard from far away, moving closer and closer to the city. The communist forces lead by North Vietnamese group devastated the much of the country, excepted for some towns and the cities still holding strong by the Khmer Republic government forces. From 1970 to 1975 Cambodian was no longer a peaceful country. Suburban areas were destroyed and about one million people were killed. At that time Maly was a 12th grade student. Maly’s family, along with many others were suffering the consequences of the war and struggling to get food because everything was expensive. The youth didn’t have a place to go besides to seek safety. Maly and her family spent may sleepless nights counting the number of the explosions of rockets no far distance from their shelter. In April 1975, the capital Phnom Penh was captured by the communist Khmer Rouge and Vietnamese troupes. Ground transportations was cut off, stopping the flow of supplies from coming and going out of the capital. Provisions were drop from the sky by military and civil airplanes. In April 17, 1975, the Khmer Rouge supported by North Vietnam took over Cambodia. That very day, Khmer Rouge troops started pushing the population out of Phnom Penh. Everyone, except their allies, had to move out of their homes. They promise that this will be for just a couple days, and then people will be allowed to return to their homes. This was a lie. More than 3 million people were forced to leave their homes following the six main roads out from Phnom Penh. The roads were filled with people displaced from the city moving slow in one direction. Cars, motorcycles, bicycles, tricycles were moving forward at the same speed as people walking. Maly’s family of nine members left home with little left of their lives. They became worried as soon as they realize they had nothing to eat, and they didn’t know where they will stay and sleep. After a day’s walk from home everyone was tired, the night was coming slowly, so Maly and her family decided to rest and sleep on the side of the road. After one week Maly and her family arrived at another city. However, the Khmer Rouge soldiers didn’t allow them to stay. They traveled by feet to Maly’s grandfather’s village located 200 kilometers from the city. By this time there was no 18
Sokhomaly Suon distinction between people from urban areas and people living in the countryside. Maly and her family could stay but were under suspicion. There were about two hundred families in the village. The authorities investigated Maly’s family, took away their belongings, and were forced to work. Strangers came and took Maly’s father was taken away to study a new regime unfamiliar to the village. She knew something wrong will happen to family, she felt as if heart stopped and a feeling of emptiness invaded her body. She asked, “where are you taking my father?” One of the men told her, “I am bringing him to study a new regime. She added, “I would like to go with him too.” The man responded, “You will be next when he come back. Maly cried for her father. She said to herself, “Father, who am I going to be living with, who will take care our family?” Her entire family was upset but they waited for her father to come back. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, but he never came back. Maly knew, her father might had been killed or be in punishment in a camp. Maly, along with all the youth, were sent away from her family to live in a youth boot camp. They either worked in the farm fields or in construction building dump and digging canals. They were forced to work in heavy jobs that they were not used to do and were not allowed to attend school. They could not watch television or play sports. Under this new regime people had to work without pay and were fed just to survive. Maly was sent from one place to another until she had not chance to visit her family, specially her lonely mother. Maly describes the living condition under the communist regime a holocaust in Cambodia. From the end of 1978 to the beginning of 1979 the Khmer Rouge swept the country from the east to the west. Maly saw the Khmer Rouge soldiers with heavy arms continuously moving to the west side of the country leaving Vietnamese troops to occupy important places. With this unstable situation, Maly and many of the youth left the boot camp without permission. She fled to find her family. Eventually, she found them but missing were two brothers, her father and her house keeper, who she loves as family member. From that point on her family started a new life with seven members, including herself, her mother, two brothers, and three sisters looking for the future and ways to make a living.
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CONTRIBUTORS DOUACHEE VANG Douachee Vang is a Hmong woman who faced much sexism and injustice when growing up and she still faces it today. It is through her lived experiences that she is attending Fresno State with a major in Women's Studies and focusing her undergraduate researches on Hmong women. While hoping to achieve her PhD some day, her main goal in life is to trailblaze the way towards a more exposed Asian feminism, especially in regard to Hmong feminism. JODIE BAN Like all of us, Jodie is an intersection of many different identities and experiences. She is Cambodian, Southeast Asian, a second generation refugee, and a victim of genocide and war. She is an athlete, a woman, a person of color, and she grew up in poverty in the United States. She believes in Jesus Christ, and identifies as both gay and Christian. This poem is about her fight to reclaim her identity as a child of God, and realizing that God made her perfect just the way she is. JUDY DURAN Judy is an educator and an amateur filmmaker. She is pursuing a preliminary teaching credential at California State University, Fresno. Judy received her B.A. in Film Studies and East Asian Studies from Wesleyan University, and her M.S.Ed. in TESOL from the University of Pennsylvania. She hopes to use her academic training and experience in language, literacy, and film to assist students in developing as transformative learners. LYLENA YANG Lylena is a Hmong fashion designer from Sacramento, CA and has been designing for the past ten years. She currently divides her time between fashion projects within the Hmong community, working on new designs for her fashion line: Lylena Hmong Couture and her growing family. Lylena Hmong Couture is about incorporating Hmong textiles and motifs into modern silhouettes in new and innovative ways. Her inspiration for Lylena Hmong Couture Fall 2016 was using beading to make the Hmong elephant foot motif onto elegant silhouettes. The contrast of red and gold throughout the collection enhanced the beaded motifs. PACHIA LUCY VANG Pachia was born and raised in Sacramento, California where she grew up as the eldest of five under the close care of her grandparents. This poem recounts the memories of their time together as she watched them grow old and part ways with the world. As a Hmong-American woman, Pachia is a researcher, organizer, and cultural restorer who cares deeply about her heritage and people. She received her Bachelors of Arts in Anthropology from the University of California in Berkeley and has served as an ally to refugee communities for over a year. Today she is in search of her next creative endeavor to ease her humanitarian calling.
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CONTRIBUTORS SHANIA SAOLENG VANG Shania is was born and raised in Fresno, California. She is 17 years old, and a senior at Sunnyside High School. She enjoys doing extracurricular activities, joining clubs, and getting involved around school. SOKHOMALY SUON Sokhomaly was born in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Shortly after finishing high school, the Cambodian government collapsed and she was removed from the city to a rural village. After 16 years of moving from place to place fleeing a repressive government, Sokhomaly made her way to America. Recently she received her American citizenship, yet she still holds true to many Cambodian traditions and values. She is active with the Cambodian temple and the Fresno Holistic Center, and is involved in many Khmer community events. She helped form the United Khmer Cultural Preservation, an organization that offers spaces for Cambodians to practice their art and culture and to address the issues that concern them the most. Sokhomaly believes that language barriers between the younger and older generation is a major issue that affects the Cambodian community in Fresno. SOUA XIONG Soua Xiong is a Fine Art photographer, whose personal works express her struggles as a Hmong American woman. Her photographs are directed tableaus that reflect the challenges of finding her own place between two cultures. Xiong was born in Chiang Kham, Thailand. At the age of 4, she moved with her family to the United States. Her passion for photography came when after losing her grandfather when she realized there were no photographs of him. YENG XIONG Yeng was born and raised in Fresno, California with majority of her family being refugees from Laos. Growing up, she experiences many discrimination for being Hmong, not only from her non-Asian peers, but also from those who are of other Asian ethnicity and background. Her photo was created to convey the message that Hmong is American. Being Hmong American, Yeng gets to participate in many cultures. 
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Acknowledgement MAI is a project of the Tamejavi Cultural Organizing Fellowship Program (TCOFP). It was made possible by the Pan Valley Institute of the American Friends Service Committee. MAI is curated by  Cultural Organizing Fellow See Xiong. She is a graduate student at California State University, Fresno. She was born in Chiang Kham refugee camp and came to the United States as a refugee at the age of 5. Thanks to the support from Fellows, Brenda Ordaz and Wasan Abu-Baker; Pan Valley Institute staff, Myrna Martinez-Nateras, Minerva Mendoza, and Dayanna Sevilla. Front cover photo courtesy of See Xiong.
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Contact Tamejavi Cultural Organizing Fellowship Program Pan Valley Institute 3649 W Beechwood Ave., Suite 102 Fresno, CA 93711 (559) 222-7678 infopvi@afsc.org http://www.tamejavi.org http://www.afsc.org
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