Anh Do reports for the Los Angeles Times
They called him the Vietnamese James Bond.
On a September day in 1992, Ly Tong hijacked an Airbus A310 on a charter flight for Vietnam Airlines, flew over Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon, and dropped his munition: thousands of little paper bombs calling for the overthrow of the communist government.
After the rain of leaflets, he jumped from the aircraft, parachuting right into a swamp.
Today, hooked to tubes, the former South Vietnamese fighter pilot lies on a hospital bed and battles for consciousness as he nears his final descent, diagnosed with liver disease.A longtime supporter, Thien Thanh Nguyen, leaned toward him. “If you can hear me, please let me know,” he said.
In a coma in San Diego since March 21, Tong turned his head slightly.
“He’s trying his best,” Nguyen said.
For many Vietnamese immigrants from the older generation — staunch Republicans and parents and grandparents who saw their progeny become increasingly liberal — Tong, 74, was an uncompromising enemy against communism. And that, in their eyes, made him a hero.
“Many Vietnamese in the community respect how he risked himself in the name of freedom for everyone,” said Hoa Thai Cu, president of the South Vietnamese Air Force Assn. of San Diego. Cu is coordinating Tong’s medical treatment and promises that the group will pay for his funeral.
But to many members of the younger generation, Tong is a relic of the past — if they think of him at all.
“I respect the beliefs of the older people, but they are not my beliefs,” said Jessie Nguyen, 21, of Los Angeles. The graphic designer said she would “protest against the same government by not buying any products made in Vietnam. But I would not line up for a demonstration.”
Sipping jasmine milk tea from Snow Monster in Westminster, Lili Bui, 25, said she grew up hearing about Tong’s escapades from her grandparents.
“Every generation has its heroes…. But people like my grandpa focus on the past because that’s what they understand best,” said Bui, who is studying to be a cosmetologist. “They grew up with an anti-communist philosophy that sometimes favor extreme situations. I don’t agree with that, but then I was raised in America.”
For a man like Tong, the Vietnam War never truly ended.
Tong joined the South Vietnamese Air Force and at 17 was assigned to the Black Eagle fighter squadron. In the 1970s, his A-37 jet was shot down, and at the end of the Vietnam War, the North Vietnamese imprisoned him, sending him to reeducation camp outside the coastal city of Nha Trang.
He tried several times to escape, succeeding in 1980. On the loose, he would recall an 18-month adventure on foot, bicycling or riding buses through Cambodia, Thailand and Malaysia — ultimately swimming across the Johore Strait to Singapore, where he strode into the U.S. Embassy to ask for asylum.
In 1984, he resettled in Louisiana, later enrolling in a political science graduate program at the University of New Orleans. After graduating, he moved to San Jose, where he got involved in community politics, joining protests and eventually writing books on Vietnamese history and culture.
A longtime supporter, Thien Thanh Nguyen, leaned toward him. “If you can hear me, please let me know,” he said.
In a coma in San Diego since March 21, Tong turned his head slightly.
“He’s trying his best,” Nguyen said.
For many Vietnamese immigrants from the older generation — staunch Republicans and parents and grandparents who saw their progeny become increasingly liberal — Tong, 74, was an uncompromising enemy against communism. And that, in their eyes, made him a hero.
“Many Vietnamese in the community respect how he risked himself in the name of freedom for everyone,” said Hoa Thai Cu, president of the South Vietnamese Air Force Assn. of San Diego. Cu is coordinating Tong’s medical treatment and promises that the group will pay for his funeral.
But to many members of the younger generation, Tong is a relic of the past — if they think of him at all.
“I respect the beliefs of the older people, but they are not my beliefs,” said Jessie Nguyen, 21, of Los Angeles. The graphic designer said she would “protest against the same government by not buying any products made in Vietnam. But I would not line up for a demonstration.”
Sipping jasmine milk tea from Snow Monster in Westminster, Lili Bui, 25, said she grew up hearing about Tong’s escapades from her grandparents.
“Every generation has its heroes…. But people like my grandpa focus on the past because that’s what they understand best,” said Bui, who is studying to be a cosmetologist. “They grew up with an anti-communist philosophy that sometimes favor extreme situations. I don’t agree with that, but then I was raised in America.”
For a man like Tong, the Vietnam War never truly ended.
Tong joined the South Vietnamese Air Force and at 17 was assigned to the Black Eagle fighter squadron. In the 1970s, his A-37 jet was shot down, and at the end of the Vietnam War, the North Vietnamese imprisoned him, sending him to reeducation camp outside the coastal city of Nha Trang.
He tried several times to escape, succeeding in 1980. On the loose, he would recall an 18-month adventure on foot, bicycling or riding buses through Cambodia, Thailand and Malaysia — ultimately swimming across the Johore Strait to Singapore, where he strode into the U.S. Embassy to ask for asylum.
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