Family physician Nguyen Linh, M.D., a captain in the U.S. Air Force, has a message for Americans. Don't forget the civilians who, after surviving the horrors of war, now must contend with the horrors of Hurricane Katrina.
The war to which Linh refers ended in Vietnam more than 30 years ago. The survivors are Vietnamese fishermen and their families who made their way to Biloxi, Miss., to begin again -- until Hurricane Katrina destroyed their new lives.
Vietnamese-American FP Documents Countrymen's Dire Situation
By News Staff
11/15/2005
A Vietnam veteran family physician Nguyen Linh, M.D., knew only as "Hieu," top, lives in a tent on the sidewalk in front of what was his Biloxi, Miss., home and survives on food provided by the Buddhist temple and Vietnamese Catholic Church. The nearby Vietnamese Baptist Church, bottom, was demolished by the storm.
As an Air Force physician, Linh was sent to a battered Keesler Air Force Base -- home to a medical center that serves 56,000 active and retired members of the military and their families -- in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. For three weeks, he and his colleagues cared for 70 to 80 patients a day.
"The medical center itself was uninhabitable," said Linh. Working 24 hours a day, medical staff had been providing care in a tent outside the hospital. "The members of the staff there had been working nonstop, even though they were victims of the storm themselves. When we got there, you could see the relief in their eyes."
By day, Linh treated lacerations, sprains, chest pain, hypertension, post-traumatic stress disorder, and a host of other acute and chronic conditions caused or exacerbated by the storm. By night, he contemplated the needs of some 4,000 Vietnamese Americans who remained in the city during and after the hurricane.
"I was sure the hurricane damage must be horrendous to the Vietnamese community," said Linh.
His concern grew from knowing that many in the community spoke little or no English and probably didn't know about the federal government and American Red Cross resources available to them.
"There are a lot of elderly and children who do not communicate well in English," said Linh. "That's a major barrier. FEMA (the Federal Emergency Management Agency) possibly had no doctors who could speak Vietnamese."
With permission from his commanding officer, Linh ventured into Biloxi to learn how the community was faring. The city "reminded me of the aftermath of the Vietnam war," he said. The Vietnamese Baptist Church was destroyed, and residents relied on the Vietnamese Catholic Church and Buddhist temple, which were providing food and clothing. Few in the community seemed to know about the aid resources available to them.
Linh met a man he knew only has "Hieu," who had scrambled to the roof of his house as water swirled just under the eaves. "When anyone floated by the house, he dove in to try to save them," said Linh. "Now he lives on the sidewalk by his house, surviving on food and water from the church and temple. He seemed clueless about Red Cross or FEMA."
Among the stories Linh heard was that of a fisherman and his wife, who was five months pregnant with twins, camped on the dock near the remains of their boat.
"They lived under a roof made by a blanket and a tarp," he said. "Their wall was made with bed sheets. The kitchen was a burning log on a piece of sheet metal. It reminded me of my days as a refugee from Vietnam by boat."
Linh photographed much of what he saw and developed a presentation that he shares with Vietnamese communities in Texas and California. Now, he tells the story of the Biloxi community's situation at church gatherings, on radio programs, and in Viet Tide, a bilingual weekly magazine, and other publications.
"My goal is to let as many people as possible" know about the plight of the Biloxi Vietnamese community, he said. "They are a community that is silently enduring this disaster."
"The medical center itself was uninhabitable," said Linh. Working 24 hours a day, medical staff had been providing care in a tent outside the hospital. "The members of the staff there had been working nonstop, even though they were victims of the storm themselves. When we got there, you could see the relief in their eyes."
By day, Linh treated lacerations, sprains, chest pain, hypertension, post-traumatic stress disorder, and a host of other acute and chronic conditions caused or exacerbated by the storm. By night, he contemplated the needs of some 4,000 Vietnamese Americans who remained in the city during and after the hurricane.
"I was sure the hurricane damage must be horrendous to the Vietnamese community," said Linh.
His concern grew from knowing that many in the community spoke little or no English and probably didn't know about the federal government and American Red Cross resources available to them.
"There are a lot of elderly and children who do not communicate well in English," said Linh. "That's a major barrier. FEMA (the Federal Emergency Management Agency) possibly had no doctors who could speak Vietnamese."
With permission from his commanding officer, Linh ventured into Biloxi to learn how the community was faring. The city "reminded me of the aftermath of the Vietnam war," he said. The Vietnamese Baptist Church was destroyed, and residents relied on the Vietnamese Catholic Church and Buddhist temple, which were providing food and clothing. Few in the community seemed to know about the aid resources available to them.
Linh met a man he knew only has "Hieu," who had scrambled to the roof of his house as water swirled just under the eaves. "When anyone floated by the house, he dove in to try to save them," said Linh. "Now he lives on the sidewalk by his house, surviving on food and water from the church and temple. He seemed clueless about Red Cross or FEMA."
Among the stories Linh heard was that of a fisherman and his wife, who was five months pregnant with twins, camped on the dock near the remains of their boat.
"They lived under a roof made by a blanket and a tarp," he said. "Their wall was made with bed sheets. The kitchen was a burning log on a piece of sheet metal. It reminded me of my days as a refugee from Vietnam by boat."
Linh photographed much of what he saw and developed a presentation that he shares with Vietnamese communities in Texas and California. Now, he tells the story of the Biloxi community's situation at church gatherings, on radio programs, and in Viet Tide, a bilingual weekly magazine, and other publications.
"My goal is to let as many people as possible" know about the plight of the Biloxi Vietnamese community, he said. "They are a community that is silently enduring this disaster."
