CHILD OF DUST

A STORY THAT REMINDS US TO BE HUMAN

Tonight my husband and I returned from a screening of Child of Dust, a documentary that reached directly into the softest part of me. From the first frame to the last, I cried. Not because I am fragile, but because the film carries a truth that refuses to be ignored. It is a story of identity, longing, survival, and the quiet strength that rises from unbearable beginnings.

The film follows Sang, a man born in Vietnam to a Vietnamese mother and an American father who served in the war. His father left the country and never returned. Children like Sang were given a name in Vietnam. They were called Amerasians. They were called children of dust. Children caught between two worlds. Children seen as foreign in their own land and forgotten by the country of their fathers.

Sang’s story unfolds from childhood into adulthood. We witness his struggle to belong. His search for the father he has never met. His longing to understand who he is in a world that treats him as an outsider. We see the weight of abandonment shaping him long after the war ends. And yet, through all of this, he carries a tenderness that cannot be erased. A smile that rises through sorrow. A hope that refuses to disappear.

This film reminded me how trauma settles not only in the bodies of survivors but in the generations that come after. As someone born during the Rwanda Genocide against the Tutsi, I recognized the echo of inherited wounds. I recognized the long shadow that violence casts over families, children, and the dreams that try to grow in damaged soil. I have seen this in my community. I have seen it in Holocaust survivors and their children. I have seen it in Black Americans whose ancestors endured centuries of brutality. And tonight, I saw it again in Sang.

The documentary is directed by Weronika Mliczewska, a Polish filmmaker whose own country bears the memory of the Holocaust. Her lens is tender, patient, and unafraid. She films Sang with dignity and restraint. She listens to him. She witnesses him. Her sensitivity is visible in every frame. People who come from wounded histories often know how to hold the wounded stories of others.

What stayed with me most deeply was Sang’s journey toward his own identity. His search for his American father becomes more than a personal mission. It becomes a symbol of every child forgotten by war. A reminder of the human cost long after soldiers go home. A quiet question placed in front of all of us:

What happens to the children our conflicts leave behind?

This film does not look away. It asks us to see. It asks us to remember. It asks us to feel.

Child of Dust is a testament to endurance. It is a study in resilience. It is a warning about the consequences of war and a prayer for the healing that still remains possible. And Sang, with his gentle presence and unwavering hope, becomes a living reminder that the human spirit is capable of rising even in the ruins.

I left the theater feeling cracked open, humbled, and deeply moved. This film deserves to travel the world. It deserves to be studied, discussed, felt. It carries a universal message:

Every human being longs to be seen. Every human being deserves to belong.

Sang’s story is not only his own. It is a mirror for us all.