In 1975, as the Vietnam war was wrapping up (you know, the one that definitely ended well for everyone involved), the Australian government, under the American-led Operation Babylift, put out a call for families to adopt thousands of orphaned children being evacuated. Our protagonist's parents, seeing an ad in their local newspaper, thought, "Sure, let's do that." And thus began a tale that would take nearly five decades to reveal its twist.
The child, who would later be known as Le Thi Ha, arrived in Adelaide in April, so tiny she came in a shoebox with her umbilical cord still attached. The paperwork said January birthday, but the chaos of the evacuation meant no one could verify anything. Her parents divorced when she was two, but she had a happy childhood with an older sister, three brothers, and parents who loved her. As a teen, she faced racial slurs and tried to hide her Asian heritage with tattoos and hair dye, because that's a totally healthy coping mechanism.
In 1995, having her daughter Jade changed everything. For the first time, she had a biological connection, and she stared at her baby for hours, thinking, "Who do I look like?" This question haunted her as she had more children. In 2004, she and her mum visited Vietnam, where she was surrounded by people who looked like her, oscillating between joy and depression. In 2015, at a reunion of Operation Babylift evacuees in Vietnam, she took a DNA test, hoping to find relatives. She found 12 cousins, but they weren't interested in connecting. Rude.
In early 2024, a TV show producer named Claire sent her a new DNA test, but the show lost funding. In July, she asked her daughter Brooklyn to check the results. Brooklyn said, "Mum, you've got a brother." The name "Glenn" and the label "brother" appeared. Our heroine began rocking back and forth, shouting "Oh my God." She found Glenn on Facebook and saw a face so like hers, she was speechless. A post about his birthday revealed he was born in April - the same month she arrived in Australia as a newborn. He wasn't just her brother; he was her twin. Cue dramatic music.
The questions flooded in: How were they separated? Why? How could she be 49 and discover a twin who lived a 2.5-hour flight away in Brisbane? Claire offered to reach out, and the waiting was torturous. In November, he finally called, and they spoke for two and a half hours. She had the pleasure of breaking the news that they were twins. Two months later, she went to meet him, and they embraced, sobbing. They'd shared a womb and were finally reunited. For two days, she couldn't tear her eyes away from Glenn, touching him to make sure he was real. But as weeks passed, their communication dwindled, though his wife assured her he was just processing.
She's angry that no one has taken responsibility for separating them from their parents. She's learned that reunions don't always lead to a neat happy ever after, but she's also discovered her own strength. Last year, she spoke at the Department of Home Affairs for Refugee Week, sharing her story. She wants other adoptees to know they matter. We all deserve to be heard, even if it takes 49 years and a DNA test to find out who we are.