My family had no choice other than to flee Vietnam for the UK

The biting British winter was a shock, as we stepped off the airplane onto UK soil in October 1979.

I was nine years old and I’d arrived from Hong Kong as a refugee with my parents and baby brother. But it had taken six months to finally get here and I felt a mix of emotions – curiosity, apprehension and a touch of bewilderment.

At the time, we didn’t speak English and knew nothing of British customs. This left us feeling vulnerable and disoriented.

Now, four decades later, I’m working to destigmatise the lives of refugees living in the UK.

My early Hanoi childhood was joyful. We lived in a bustling Chinese neighbourhood surrounded by my father’s family, so I often spent time playing with cousins – a carefree existence interspersed with school.

My father was Chinese and my mother Vietnamese, but I didn’t know at the time that this was a problem for some people.

This is because – while the Sino-Vietnamese War officially began in February 1979 – tensions between the two countries were already escalating throughout 1978. These tensions created a climate of fear and uncertainty.

The first time I properly sensed something was wrong was when I was kept home from school for a few weeks, but my parents didn’t tell me anything. This wasn’t unusual, as life in Vietnam was shrouded in secrecy because people feared reprisals from the authorities.

One day in 1978, when I was eight years old, men came and took my uncle away. We wouldn’t see him again until our departure – his release conditional on our leaving the country. We had no choice but to comply.

I remember feeling apprehensive and sad, especially on the day we (my parents, baby brother and my dad’s family – my nan, aunt and uncles) left under the cover of darkness.

The memory of that dark morning remains vivid: huddled on a crowded coach amidst the sobs of families being torn apart. My mother’s grief was overwhelming because she hadn’t wanted to leave her own family behind. 

We were among the first waves of refugees who left Vietnam in the late 70s, heading for Hong Kong. We did not know much beyond this, including where we would resettle.

From the coach, we boarded a small, overcrowded boat. Women and children laid in rows, men huddled in the open air. My baby brother – just a few months old at the time – became feverish, his survival uncertain.

Then, suddenly, a storm hit in the middle of the night and smashed our boat against the rocks. It was terrifying. People were screaming, and it was dark except for sporadic torchlights. Miraculously, everyone managed to get onto land. 

Our boat was destroyed, so we had to seek shelter and hide in caves that night, which was terrifying. In the morning, we found islanders who sheltered us in an outbuilding and helped us re-build the boat.

We were on the island for a month. I don’t remember the day we left it, apart from the boat being much smaller than the one that crashed.

Reaching Hong Kong offered little respite. We were confined to a closed refugee camp, unable to leave, and each family was allocated a space on the floor. We felt unwelcome and powerless.

Thankfully, months later, we were offered asylum in the UK and transferred to a less restrictive camp. Desperate to leave, we accepted the offer.

Arriving in England as a nine-year-old Vietnamese refugee in October 1979, I was initially placed in a reception centre in a disused hospital in Kent. The staff’s kindness and the friendship with other Vietnamese children created a sense of normalcy in the aftermath of fleeing Vietnam.

This is where I attended school, learning English thanks to our amazing teacher, Mrs Jones. That year, I experienced my first Christmas and received my first ever present from Santa – a Basil Brush cuddly toy fox.  It was a happy time filled with newfound security and routines.

However, after three months, families were separated and sent to various locations across the country in a bid to foster integration.

As a result, my family was moved to Faversham, where we were supported by a kind local British family (we still exchange Christmas cards today). Unfortunately, the nearest Vietnamese family lived an hour’s walk away, so we lacked an established community, leading to isolation.

As the only child who looked like me, and struggling with English, making friends at school was difficult. Some children’s racist comments were hurtful and sometimes landed me in trouble, but through it all, I forged enduring friendships.

Unfortunately, soon after, my mother became very ill and was hospitalised for several months. She must have been terrified, not only due to her illness, but also because she was alone and unable to speak English.

Then when I was 13, my parents moved to London to be closer to my dad’s family, who had settled there. London became my true home, because there were people who looked like me – a Vietnamese community.

In my adulthood, I pursued my passion for social research by working for MORI, which later became Ipsos. It is a global research and consulting firm conducting public opinion polls and social research studies – work that is deeply important to me.

It gives me the opportunity to understand aspects of our society and the experiences of refugees, providing evidence-based insights to challenge misinformation and fears that can sometimes shape public perceptions and policy debates.

I still live in London today and am now the Managing Director of Public Affairs at Ipsos. Then last year, I became Vice Chair of Trustees for UK for UNHCR, which is the UN Refugee Agency’s national charity partner for the UK.

Having personally experienced the challenges of being a refugee, and now with my background in social research, I wanted to use my expertise to contribute to the vital work of UNHCR, especially given the current global displacement crisis. I feel so fortunate to be in a position to make a difference.

Many challenges my parents faced remain for new arrivals. Recent research from Ipsos and UNHCR reveals a tension: while around three in four Britons support the Refugee Convention’s principle of offering refuge to those fleeing conflict, including in the UK, negative attitudes towards refugees are rising in some parts of society.

This shift likely stems from increased political and media focus on asylum and immigration within the wider context of the cost-of-living crisis.

Refugees are often dehumanised and reduced to statistics. Just as the term ‘boat people’ was once synonymous with Vietnamese refugees, the current ‘small boats’ references risk dehumanising a new generation of displaced individuals, making it difficult for them to integrate, contribute and rebuild their lives.

Seeing this dehumanisation makes me feel deeply saddened about the immense waste of talent and potential. But by sharing my story, I hope I can foster empathy and understanding.

I’m proud that my employer actively offers employment for refugees in roles such as research or operations. This is something that businesses can do more; many refugees bring valuable skills and perspectives that can be a powerful way to build a more inclusive society.

When I think back to my own long, dangerous journey to the UK, kindness – above all – stands out. I wouldn’t be here without the compassion of the islanders who helped us rebuild our boat or the family who supported us in Kent.

But also, embracing the culture of my new home and interweaving it with my earlier heritage has shown me that cultures can coexist and enrich one another.

This cultural exchange is powerfully demonstrated by artist and stage designer Es Devlin’s ‘FACE TO FACE’ exhibition. This is where the stories of 50 Londoners (myself included) highlight the richness that diverse cultures bring to our city and aims to humanise refugees.

The process of sitting for Es was incredibly moving. For the first 45 minutes, she drew in silence, knowing nothing about me. Then I shared my story, my experiences, and my journey.

This approach created a powerful sense of connection, making me feel like a true co-author of the piece. It transformed the portrait from a simple representation of my features into a reflection of my identity.

Throughout my life, I’ve learned the importance of hard work and a refusal to let fear or limitations hold me back. These values guide  my personal and professional life as I strive to make a positive impact.

They were my compass when I started over in the UK and continue to motivate me today.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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