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NGUYEN
Viet Thanh Nguyen was
THE
born in Vietnam in 1971. A C OLLECTION OF ILLUMINATING ESSAYS “To become a refugee is to know, inevitably,
After the fall of Saigon in BY REFUGEE WRITERS, EDITED AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION that the past is not only marked by the passage
1975, he and his family of time, but by loss—the loss of loved ones, of
fled to the United States. BY PULITZER PRIZE WINNER VIET THANH NGUYEN, countries, of identities, of selves. We want to
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The author of three books AU THOR OF THE SYMPATHIZER AND THE REFUGEES give voice to all those losses that would other-
and the recipient of the wise remain unheard except by us and those
2017 MacArthur Founda- near and dear to us.”
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tion “genius grant” among —Viet Thanh Nguyen, from the Introduction
many other honors, Nguyen is the Aerol Arnold W I TH ESSAYS FROM:
Chair of English, Comparative Literature,
TO DAY T H E WO R L D FACES an enormous
American Studies and Ethnicity at University Joseph Azam Reyna Grande Maaza Mengiste
of Southern California. He lives in Los Angeles, refugee crisis—22.5 million people, the high-
David Bezmozgis Meron Hadero Dina Nayeri est number of refugees ever recorded, fleeing
California.
Fatima Bhutto Aleksandar Hemon Vu Tran persecution and conflict from Myanmar to
The International Rescue Committee (IRC) Thi Bui Joseph Kertes Novuyo Rosa Tshuma Syria. Yet the United States is increasingly clos-
responds to the world’s worst humanitarian Ariel Dorfman Porochista Khakpour Kao Kalia Yang ing its doors, reducing the number of refugees
allowed to resettle here each year. Other coun-
crises, helping to restore health, safety, edu- Lev Golinkin Marina Lewycka
cation, economic well-being, and power to tries, from the United Kingdom to Germany,
people devastated by conflict and disaster. have become less welcoming as well.
Founded in 1933 at the call of Albert Einstein, In The Displaced, Pulitzer Prize–winning
author Viet Thanh Nguyen, himself a refugee,
the IRC is at work in over forty countries and Abrams will donate 10 percent of the cover price of
twenty-eight offices across the United States, this book, a minimum of $25,000 annually, to the
brings together a host of prominent refugee
#1440486 01/17/18
helping people to survive, reclaim control of International Rescue Committee (IRC), a not-for-profit writers from around the world to explore and
their future, and strengthen their communi- organization dedicated to providing humanitarian aid, relief, illuminate their experiences: Maaza Mengiste
ties. Learn more at www.rescue.org. and resettlement to refugees and other victims of oppression exhumes the human cost of a refugee’s jour-
or violent conflict. Please visit www.abramsbooks.com for ney; Kao Kalia Yang recalls the courage of
updates and promotion details. children in a camp in Thailand; Aleksandar
Hemon recounts a fellow Bosnian’s answer to
REFUGEE WRITERS ON his question, “How did you get here?”; Thi Bui
offers two uniquely striking graphic panels;
JAC K E T DE SIG N B Y J OH N G A L L
REFUGEE LIVES David Bezmozgis writes about uncovering new
details about his past and attending a hearing
for a new refugee.
Poignant and insightful, this collection of
EDITED BY essays reveals moments of uncertainty, resil-
U.S. $25.00 Can. $32.00 U.K. £18.99
ience in the face of trauma, and a reimagining
ISBN: 978-1-4197-2948-5
VIET THANH NGUYE N of identity. The Displaced is a powerful look at
what it means to be forced to leave home and
PU L I T Z E R PR I Z E – W I N N I N G AU T H O R O F T H E SY M PAT H I Z E R find a place of refuge.
Printed in the United States
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JOSEPH AZAM
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all she could do to keep me calm and distract herself from the
dripping urine-soaked mattress above her was to breastfeed
me through the night. As she quickly discovered, India was no
place for a young refugee mother, at least not mine, to be. So,
with the prospect of my father’s visa to Germany still uncer-
tain, my mother made a decision to head to Berlin early, leaving
India and my grandfather behind.
Several months went by before my father managed to leave
Afghanistan. When he finally arrived in Berlin we wasted little
time before making our way to New York City to seek asylum
and start our life together as a family. My baba jaan never did
end up making it back to Kabul. Not long after he got word in
India that we made it to Berlin, he left this world to find his
own peace.
. . .
Living in New York brought with it two things families like mine
were eager to have: opportunity and anonymity. My mother,
who had studied early education in Afghanistan and had been
a schoolteacher in Kabul, started working almost as soon as she
landed. The only English she knew she had picked up waiting
tables at a pizza shop in Virginia during her first stint in the
United States. so she sought out work that demanded she say
very little. Her first job in New York was sweeping floors and
providing treatments at a beauty spa on the Upper East Side
of Manhattan. My father, who had studied economics and was
fluent in German and French, started off selling newspapers at
a corner kiosk in midtown Manhattan, not far from Rockefel-
ler Center—where my office is today. The three of us lived in a
one-bedroom apartment in Flushing, Queens, while my parents
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New York in the 1980s, at least the part that I grew up in,
was full of families like mine who had recently come from some
distant place in search of a better life. I went to school with a
lot of kids from those families and it wasn’t hard to spot us if
you knew what to look for. We were the ones who dressed a
little differently and carried our lunches in repurposed plastic
shopping bags that could never be tied tightly enough to con-
tain the unfamiliar aromas from our home kitchens. You would
have found us tagging along with our parents for parent-teacher
meetings to help translate and working at our family-run busi-
nesses on the weekends. We stood out and were each vulnerable
in our own way.
While I grew up not necessarily knowing what a refugee
was or that I was one, I don’t recall ever not knowing the feeling
of being an outsider. It didn’t help that for years the only iden-
tification I had was a green card with the words Resident Alien
across the top. As a child I watched helplessly as my parents
struggled, like many refugees do, to integrate into the United
States. I became fixated on the notion of being somehow dis-
placed myself. Even my name itself, like my green card, became
a billboard for my foreignness.
Growing up, my name—Mohammad—caused me to dread
the fall. While some kids fretted about months of monotony, my
angst was focused squarely on the first moments of the school
year when roll would be taken out loud for the first time. By
the first grade, I had come up with a routine designed to ensure
that my teacher wouldn’t even utter the name Mohammad.
Before the start of the first day of class, while most kids were
saying goodbye to their parents or getting reacquainted with
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friends, I would seek out my new teacher to ask that they call
me by my “real first name,” Yousuf. The modest bargain I made
with myself was that I would live with Yousuf, which sounded
enough like Joseph to get me by, but I would rid myself of the
name Mohammad, which I could not fashion into anything that
could pass. And for whatever it’s worth, I wasn’t alone in mak-
ing these sorts of compromises.
I had a lot of friends from immigrant families with strange
sounding names and most of them went even further than I
did in trying to fortify their American-ness. Instead of going by
their given names, many of them took on noms de guerre like
Michael, or Danny, or Jessica in the struggle to fit in. I never
had the courage or the permission to go that far myself. I had
abandoned Mohammad, but I never asked to be called Joseph
or Joe, in part because it felt dishonest but mostly because I was
worried about my parents somehow finding out and seeing it as
a rejection of who we were. Ironically enough, years later they
would do it for me.
. . .
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