Chapter 12: The First Time I Said Her Name to the World

I once thought survivors were the strongest. But no—the strongest was the woman who pushed me into a truck that night and walked back into the fire. The international conference was in Geneva. Theme: "Voices Lost in Transit." I was invited as a notable memoir author from Asia. But I made it clear from the start: "I'm not here to speak for myself. I'm here to speak for the one who vanished so I could return."

When it was my turn, I didn't bring a script. No lapel mic. No slides. Just a framed piece of Aunt Mai's embroidered cloth. I placed it at the podium. The room fell silent. "Her name was Mai. I don't know her full name. I don't know where she was born. I don't even know if she's alive." I took a breath. "But I know this: on the night I escaped, she stayed. She pushed me into a truck. She walked back into a trap. And she never returned."

"I owe her everything. This book. These speeches. This name I carry. They are not just mine. They are hers." I lifted the frame, placed my hand on the glass—like touching hers. The room didn't brighten. But something shifted, like the silence had bowed its head.

There was no applause. Only a soft "Thank you" from the interpreter behind me. An older man approached quietly and whispered in French: "Elle n'a pas disparu. Elle est dans ta voix." (She didn't disappear. She's in your voice.)

That night, I didn't write in my journal. I didn't record my speech. I simply messaged Tram—the rescue worker at the border: "If they ever find her remains, bury them with a piece of the embroidered cloth." Tram replied with a candle emoji.

I've written so much about myself. But today, I truly wrote about the one who made my life possible. And as I write this last line… I no longer wonder if she hears me. I carry her voice now. And she walks beside mine.