By Brian Lofton

Grandmother Plia Vang, who is in her 70s, can’t sleep. She has no energy and the vision in her left eye is gradually deteriorating. She doesn’t visit the doctor and she doesn’t look up her symptoms on the Internet. She simply asks the shaman to visit her home in Fayetteville.

The next day, the Hmong household members awaken at the break of dawn for the ritual. The girls get up at 5 a.m. to start preparing the vegetables and rice. Soon, the men head outside to finish off the chicken, whose feathers have been added to the holy monument to ensure his safety in the afterlife. At about 9 a.m., the shaman arrives. 

An elderly man with weathered skin and sunken eyes enters the home and approaches the shrine that is the gateway between this world and the spiritual world. He is the only holy man who can connect the two realms. 

For two hours, he mutters a string of words not even the household members can understand. While doing this, he also melodically shakes his tambourine and moves about the room, imploring the spirits for their mercy and understanding.

At the conclusion of today’s events, the shaman leaves with nothing but the meal provided and the gratitude of the family. His 800-mile flight back to Colorado awaits him.

“She’s livelier now,” said UA student Mao Lee, Vang’s granddaughter.

No place to call home

This is an ancient tradition passed from generations of Hmong families (pronounced “mong”), an indigenous tribe from Southern Asia. It’s a tradition that many fear will soon be consumed by American, French or Australian culture, wherever the Hmong might be. Truth is, the Hmong have no homeland.

They once roamed as indigenous peoples in the mountains of Laos. The Hmong raised chicken, cattle and pig; some worked as merchants. They lived in family groups and worshiped the land – until one day in the 1960s when they were contacted by the CIA, irrevocably changing the future for all Hmong.

Hmong General Vang Poa and roughly 60 percent of the male Hmong population aided the CIA in cutting off the Ho Chi Minh Trail, a military supply route for the South Vietnam during the Vietnam War. During the “Secret War,” as the Hmong involvement in Vietnam is now referred to, 30,000 to 40,000 Hmong died. And in 1975, Laos publically announced its plans to wipe out the Hmong.

Thousand of Hmong tried fleeing Laos by crossing the Mekong River into Thailand. Many refugee camps were established in Thailand in the late 1970s and some organizations in developing countries began to sponsor Hmong refugees and families immigrating to the U.S. and other countries.

“You didn’t really get to choose where you go,” Lee said of her parents’ immigration to the U.S. “You’re lucky to get chosen.”

Blurring the lines between Hmong and American

Lee’s parents came to the U.S. separately in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s; her great aunt was sent to France around the same time. Lee’s parents still practice the cultural traditions of their ancestors, like shamanism and emphasizing a tightly knit family unit where the children are expected to never leave the home. But school, work, friends and the American emphasis on success threaten their heritage.

“In our culture, the family is very important.  But in America, there’s a stress on independence,” Lee said. “I was born here, so this is what I’m used to.”

Not all Hmong immigrants try maintaining a traditional household. Some Hmong refugees who were sponsored by Lutheran or Catholic churches were converted to Christianity. Others maintain no religious ties.

“I’m an academic,” said Stephanie Vang, a Hmong UA law student.

Vang explained how many Hmong youths cannot speak the traditional language.

“As a child, you spend eight hours at school, which is in English. Then, you come home and do schoolwork, which is in English. When you watch television, it’s also in English,” she said.

Many Hmong youths hold their tradition in the highest respect, though, and want the world to understand what they’ve inherited.

“Most Hmong my age want to keep the traditions because we’re very proud of them,” said 22-year-old Chong Lor, who works at two Thai restaurants by week and DJ’s by weekend. 

The last shaman

Many Hmong youths raised in a traditional Hmong household still believe in otherworldly spirits – 70 percent, according to Hmongstudies.org. But a lack of understanding their complex roots makes it difficult for even the children of traditional families to sustain their culture.

“The shaman rituals are very complicated to explain,” Lee said. “Even I don’t know everything about it. We’re losing the tradition gradually.”

The Hmong religion is the epitome of their culture. When someone’s going on a long trip, a relative is badly sick, a pregnant woman is close to conception or the family is just down on their luck, a visit from the shaman is needed.

The shaman is a very special individual. He alone knows ancient rituals passed down from generations of his forefathers. These rituals allow him to speak to the other world where the ancestral spirits of Lee’s family reside. Lee and her family, in times of need, depend on this connection with their spiritual relatives to guard the family and the home.

This ceremony necessitates more than a shaman, however. It requires a shrine dedicated to the family’s ancestral spirits. These shrines vary from family to family, but all serve the same purpose.

Lee’s family shrine is a thin piece of yellow paper. It’s the size of cardstock with a silver square in the middle and four or five red diamonds, Lee recalled. Uncooked rice and family photos flank the parchment. It sits on a barren wall dedicated solely to the spiritual portal. Nothing in the house, not even the residents, are allowed to touch it. This place is sacred.

“I accidentally knocked (the shrine) once,” Lee said.  “My father took (the shrine) and muttered some words,” to make things right again. “I couldn’t understand what he was saying.”