By Omee Thao
Omee Thao serves as the interim district director for the Great Commission Women of the Hmong District. She has discipled many women, taught seminars, and preached at retreats, revivals, and conferences throughout the United States and overseas.
It is easier to take an enjoyable journey to a familiar place with promising opportunities than to leave familiar surroundings and move to an unknown land with fear of the future. Even more difficult is when the journey is not desired. However, God can turn the undesirable journey that He has ordained into a blessed life. And that is just what the Lord did for me.
When I was six, my family moved from my beloved Namhia Village in western Laos to the United States. The majority of immigrants from our country were eager and excited to come to America, but it was not so with my family and me. Leaving my country was one of the most painful and hurtful experiences for me.
The Communists invaded Laos in 1975, and we were faced with the choice to remain or move to Thailand. I remember seeing soldiers everywhere we went; we were no longer free or safe in Laos. On a rainy night in 1976, my siblings and I were awakened by my mom, who said, “They are here, and we need to go now!”
We quickly left our home and began our journey to Thailand. My family joined other families and moved quickly and quietly to the outskirts of the city, where guides awaited us. We walked through the night.
During daylight, we avoided soldiers by hiding under bushes or behind large trees. The soldiers, who had discovered that many people fled, attempted to find us but took a different route that led away from us.
In the evening, the guides directed us to continue the journey. It rained hard; trails were muddy and flooded. On the third day, weather conditions hindered my elderly grandfather from continuing, which jeopardized our safety. My father was forced to make the hardest decision of his life: he returned with his father to Laos. Heartbroken, my mother, siblings, and I continued with the other families.
I was scared and sad. I knew if the soldiers caught my dad, we would never see each other again. Also, this would be the last time I would see my grandfather, and my heart ached, knowing that I would grow up without him. As my dad and grandfather turned back, the rest of my group moved forward.
We were told not to bring anything, so we had no food or water. We dug up whatever we could that was edible. We couldn’t make any sounds because it would alert the soldiers. Along the trail we saw bones, which I assumed belonged to people who had attempted to flee Laos before us.
For days, we followed muddy, slippery trails—some steep, some narrow. Everyone’s feet hurt with open wounds from walking barefooted, but we kept going, not knowing how many more days it would take to reach safety.
As we rested on the evening of the tenth day, I heard a cracking noise, like branches. We were hushed by the guides as they investigated. The sound grew louder and then stopped. I saw a shadow in front of my mom and siblings, and I thought we had been caught by soldiers and would be killed. But the shadow belonged to my father, who returned to us after taking my grandfather home. We rejoiced together to see my father—especially my mom.
After 12 days, we reached the Thailand border crossing, where Thai soldiers checked us one by one. One soldier asked my mother if she had any money. When she said no, the soldier hit her on the head with the butt of his rifle. She fell to the ground, bleeding.
One of the guides talked with the soldier, and after a few minutes, the gate was opened for us to enter Thailand. From there, we boarded a truck and were taken to Ban Nam Yao, a refugee camp.
Living in a refugee camp is like being in a jail cell, with scores of people cramped into a small area. Rice and fish were delivered every two weeks and distributed among the people in the camp. There was nothing to do; we could not leave except to buy food or seek medical attention from a nearby hospital. Many refugees died before they could receive treatment.
Life in the camp was hard, especially for young girls, for whom there was no safe place. Whenever they left the camp, girls were raped by Thai men, and no one could do anything about it. Not only were the girls raped, but also some were killed while their parents were helpless to do anything.
One day, I was walking around a neighbor’s house and saw a pool of blood on the ground. I later found out the blood belonged to our neighbor’s daughter, who had been raped and then bled to death. We lived in fear of being tortured, dying from starvation, and not waking up to see another day.
But we rejoiced daily and, as followers of Jesus, thanked God for His protection over our lives. Despite the hardship, we knew we had to keep persevering and enduring, for we had the hope that others did not have.
After living in the camp for two years, we received a letter from one of my uncles, who had reached the United States ahead of us. He said that he would sponsor us to come to America. We had no clue what or where “America” was, but we trusted him.
Months later, after a lengthy application process, my family was approved to go to the United States. In December of 1979—without knowledge of where we were going—we boarded a bus to Bangkok, then a plane to America. We arrived in snow-covered Appleton, Wisconsin, where my uncle and his family lived. The only clothes we had were shorts and T-shirts. I walked in the cold, snowy weather, wondering how we would survive such extreme conditions.
Life in the United States was hard at first, but slowly we adapted and were able to thrive and live the American dream. All the hardships I faced in Laos and Thailand God faithfully turned into blessings.
I did not know then—nor do I deserve it today—but what my family and I endured was a God-ordained expedition that brought us to a land of opportunity. I’m thankful that I was able to attend school for the first time in my life. And though it has been a long journey, I will receive a master’s degree in leadership from Denver Seminary in summer 2015.
I’ve also had the privilege to serve in ministry at different levels, such as in the local church, district, and nationally. The most rewarding honor and privilege is to serve God with my husband in Hmong churches for 16 years and currently as director of Church Ministry in the Hmong District Office.
Today, I thank God for the undesired and difficult journey out of my birthplace to an unknown but ordained place where He grew, blessed, and used me for His Kingdom. I have learned to trust Him for the unknown and unexpected journeys ahead, where He will lead me to greater places of service.
Omee Thao and her husband, Dr. Lantzia C. Thao, director of Church Ministry of the Hmong District, have four adult children and live in Thornton, Colorado.
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Read more about Omee in Alliance Life magazine.