Taken: A family’s story of deportation is an occasional series that will publish throughout the year following the Yang family as they navigate a new normal without husband and father, Zong, who was deported to Laos in May. Linda Yang is now raising their sons alone in South St. Paul, juggling the needs of a recent high school graduate and four other boys ranging in age from 3 to 15.
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Yaay Yang held onto his three-year-old brother King’s hand as the two walked home on a sunny June afternoon. Their mom had caught King playing in a muddy puddle, and asked the eldest of her five boys to escort him home for a change of clothes.
A few blocks away, Yaay’s relatives sat under a pavilion at Lorraine Park in South St. Paul, waiting for his return so they could celebrate his high school graduation.
“I do understand it… being the role model,” Yaay, 17, said on the walk home. “It’s what I have to do. Even if I’m really not the best, I still want to be a good one for them.”
Yaay’s life turned upside down five months ago when his dad, Zong Yang, 48, was detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement in February. Yaay, who also goes by his middle name Aden, found himself stepping into his father’s shoes. His mother, Linda Yang, became a single parent overnight, raising five sons without Zong – King, 3; Titan, 7; Everest, 8; Kenji, 15; Yaay, 17.
“I don’t want to disappoint them,” Yaay said of his younger brothers.
Days after his dad was detained, he started falling behind in school. He eventually bounced back, and started caring for his brothers after school. He’s taken on more house chores, and cooks for his brothers.
“Admittedly, I’m not that good,” he said of his cooking skills, a slight smile on his face.
Zong had impressed on Yaay the importance of being a strong leader for his brothers long before federal immigration agents flooded Minnesota in late 2025.
“He wants to make sure that I’m ready, and that I have everything all figured out,” Yaay said. “I know that he does care deep down, and I do see that with myself too.”
Relatives embrace Yang family
Yaay helped unload food from relatives’ cars earlier in the day at Lorraine Park as others finished setting up his graduation party. Luna, a black puppy, sat nearby under a picnic bench. The family bought Luna about a year and a half ago for Titan, but Yaay wound up as her main caretaker.
In between greeting guests, Yaay found a quiet moment to check on King as he sat with cousins on a bench, and gently rubbed the side of his cheek.
Family members from North Carolina and Minnesota gathered after a heavy rain in the morning left puddles. Pop music played loudly over a speaker as guests ate pasta and Cheetos while Yaay’s uncle, Genue Lor, grilled sausages. While the mood was joyful, tears punctuated the day, as it was the first time the family had gathered in such large numbers since Zong’s deportation in May.
As news of immigration agents arresting Hmong residents emerged last year, Zong’s potential deportation began looming over the family. Yaay said his dad had held onto the hope that he could avoid detention and deportation so he could attend the graduation events.
Yaay pictured seeing both of his parents sitting among other families as he walked across the stage in his graduation cap and gown.
“It does hurt,” he said of his dad’s absence from his graduation ceremony in early June. “A lot.”
Zong was deported due to a felony burglary conviction from his early twenties, and is one of many Hmong and Southeast Asian residents from Minnesota and elsewhere who were deported during Operation Metro Surge.
“He’s the glue that kept everybody together,” Linda said of Zong at the graduation party. “He’s kind of a jokester, and he likes to keep everybody entertained. If anything, he would be with everybody just drinking with them.”
Dozens of children and adults danced to the music at the party. A large handmade sign hung in the background, reading “Congratulations” in large cursive red and white letters – Yaay’s high school colors.
“It’s really big,” Yaay said of the party. “Can’t believe this is actually for me.”
Linda’s older brother, John Lor, who lives in Inver Grove Heights, came with his wife and children. He was in the Yang family’s backyard with Zong when Linda called Zong on Feb. 4 to inform him that federal agents had abruptly cut her off on her way to work, and that they planned to pick him up the next morning.
“I stayed with the family that day,” Lor said. “It was really heartbreaking. I try my best now to help my brother-in-law and my sister.”
Linda’s younger sister, Mai Cua Lor, who was at the party, looked up to Linda her entire life as a model for how to be a wife and mom.
“She and her husband – they made such a big impact in our lives, showing us what love is and how to care for one another and putting family first,” Mai Cua said, adding that Linda is a “strong, independent woman.”
But losing Zong has taken a toll on Linda, Mai Cua said.
“She don’t ever ask for help. She don’t ever cry. She don’t ever show her weakness. So, when she turns to us and says, ‘I need help. I need support,’ It breaks my heart,” she said, her voice breaking. “Cause that’s my sister; she don’t ever ask for anything.”
Mai Cua, who lives in North Carolina, felt helpless that she couldn’t do anything when Zong was detained, but she told Linda and her sons to never hesitate to ask for help.
Pa Houa Lo, one of Linda’s three sisters, lives in Elk River and drives down often to lift Linda’s spirits.
“She’s so strong for her kids, and she doesn’t want her kids to see her cry, but then she turns to us,” Pa Houa said, breaking into a sob, ”and she just tells us she’s broken, ‘cause her rock is gone.”
Linda grew up in North Carolina, and was living there when a mutual friend introduced her to Zong, who lived in Minneapolis at the time. They kept in touch until they met in person in 2007; they married a year later.
It’s like watching your life just live before you, and you can’t do nothing about it … I’m supposed to be right there with them.
Zong Yang
Linda’s brother, Genue Lor, drove 18 hours from North Carolina with his two children to support her. He said he’ll always support his sister and brother-in-law, but understands why opinions are divided over the reason for Zong’s deportation.
Linda knew about Zong’s past. He attended regular check-ins with federal immigration officials for 20 years. Since Laos historically refused to accept deportees from the United States, Linda and Zong never imagined he would be sent abroad. But things started to change last year as Laos shifted its stance due to political pressure from President Donald Trump’s administration. Reality settled in.
Linda told Sahan Journal she plans to move to Laos after their children are grown.
“I believe in my sister, and she believes in the law of the system, too,” Genue said. “They really do believe in the American system. That’s why she still has hope that, one day, things will be better. Maybe not in the short-term, but in the long-term, because it’s just the hope of returning together and seeing each other again.”
A dad’s toast from abroad
Surrounded by Yaay and her parents, who flew in from North Carolina, Linda delivered a short speech in the afternoon, thanking Yaay for stepping up to care for his brothers while also dealing with the pressures of being a high school senior.
She smiled as tears ran down her face.
“We haven’t done much for you, but you’ve done so much for us,” she said in a trembling voice.
She paused for a breath.
“And now you’re leaving me!” she said before bursting into laughter.
Yaay wrapped his arm around his mom in a hug, prompting smiles among the guests. She leaned her head on his chest. Then, she announced a pre-recorded video toast from Zong.
“But this toast isn’t my toast, ‘kay?” she said, her voice cracking. “This is Zong’s toast to everybody, ‘kay?”
She held up her phone, and Zong’s face appeared on the screen.
“I just want to do a little toast,” he said as cars zoomed by in the background.
He thanked the guests for their attendance, and said he was proud of Yaay. Speaking in Hmong, he said his heart cries when he thinks of the distance between himself and his family.
“Aden, I’m very proud of you, son,” he said in English. “You did it. You made it… It tears me up every time to think about you guys.”
Yaay choked back tears as he stood next to his mom with his arms behind his back, his hands clasped together. Chong Lo, Yaay’s 65-year-old maternal grandmother, gave him a hug. Linda’s sister, Pa Houa, buried her face in her scarf. Everest, Yaay’s 8-year-old brother, cried as he listened to Zong’s recording.
“Just want to say I love you — miss you man,” Zong said in the video, addressing Yaay. “I wish I could be there, but I can’t.”
Zong held up a can of beer.
“Remember, do the right thing in life,” he told Yaay. “Cheers you guys.”
He downed the drink. Guests at the party lifted their beers and drank them all in one go.
‘I’m not doing good’
Zong told Sahan Journal in an interview later that he couldn’t appear at the party via a livestream because seeing his family’s faces and hearing their questions would have flooded him with emotions.
“I knew if I came live, I would have just been crying,” he said. “I would just be bawling, so I couldn’t do it like that.”
He couldn’t bear the thought of his family asking him how he was doing.
“I’m not doing good,” he said in a shaky voice. “I miss my wife, I miss my kids – so that’s why I couldn’t do it live.”
Zong was born in a refugee camp in Thailand, and was never issued citizenship in Thailand, Laos or the United States. He received a green card when he immigrated to the United States with his family as a child, and said he never applied for citizenship because he assumed that his green card secured lifelong residency in the country because it said, “Permanent Resident.”
His family first settled in California, where most of his siblings and his mom still live. He has an older brother in Minnesota. His dad died several years ago from a sudden illness.
Zong was convicted of felony burglary in Wisconsin in 1999 for stealing several semi-automatic handguns from the Gander Mountain store in Appleton, Wisconsin, when he was 21. He was sentenced to 12 years in prison, serving about seven years before he was released at the end of 2006, according to court records. His criminal record also includes a conviction for drug possession in 2019.
The burglary conviction is considered a removal offense by the federal government, and stripped Zong of his green card and prevented him from ever applying for U.S. citizenship. It also resulted in a final order for deportation against him that required him to regularly check in with ICE at the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building at the discretion of his immigration officer, or until the government could find a country that would accept him as a deportee.
Zong spent about four months earlier this year in immigration detention facilities in Texas and Louisiana, before he was put on a flight to Laos. When he arrived in Laos on May 9, he was moved to a detention facility operated by the Lao government. He was later released because a local sponsor vouched for him, which is required of U.S. deportees before they leave Lao custody.
“Nervousness is still there,” he said of his slow assimilation to life in Laos, a country he had never stepped foot in before.
These days, he’s less intimidated buying food from local vendors, or when meeting new people. He’s making small steps to care for himself: he often goes to the gym with a friend, and recently opened up a bank account.
He lives alone in an apartment located 15 minutes from the National University of Laos in Vientiane, the country’s capital.
“It’s like watching your life just live before you, and you can’t do nothing about it, just go on without you, you know? Like I was supposed to be in the picture,” Zong said of why he didn’t appear live at Yaay’s graduation party. “I’m not supposed to be 2,000 miles away. I’m not supposed to be in the Eastern Hemisphere, you know? I’m supposed to be right there with them.”
Yaay prepares for college
After Zong’s toast, Linda passed the microphone to Yaay, who was caught by surprise. Yaay told the guests he plans to attend Winona State University this fall and study chemistry.
“I’m just going to go and see what life has planned for me,” he said, holding tightly onto the microphone as he nervously glanced at the ground.
“You got it baby!” his maternal aunt, Pa Houa, shouted.
Yaay graduated on June 4, walking across the stage in his red cap and gown as his dad watched live on WhatsApp through Linda’s cellphone. Zong, who didn’t attend college, always reminded his children to focus on education.
Yaay walked with about 200 high school seniors. He wore a red stole with a Hmong design of the elephant foot motif and his name written in Hmong, “Yej Yaj.” Some of the student and teacher commencement speakers briefly addressed the federal immigration operation that rippled across Minnesota from late 2025 through early 2026.
“It is a city built on the backs of immigrants, and it continues to be a community where we are strengthened by our immigrant families,” student speaker Jackson Schultz said about South St. Paul.
Yaay was one of the last students called on stage. Linda zoomed in on him to give Zong a better view. Linda’s sister, Pa Houa, and Zong’s cousin, Mai Zoua, cheered loudly.
“It’s emotional,” Linda said at the graduation ceremony. “I know his dad wanted to be here; it’s another one of those bittersweet moments.”
Yaay, filled with a mix of excitement and nervous energy, found his family when the ceremony ended.
“It’s the first time that my life’s not really being directed by going to the next school grade,” he said. “It’s going into college and moving up and living on my own. It’s adulting, basically.”
Yaay smiled happily for photos, holding a bouquet of flowers and a string of balloons. He’s relied on close school friends to cope with his dad’s deportation.
“It is a big accomplishment and obviously with all this stuff going on, I wish my dad was here to witness me do this, and just be here with me in this moment,” he said. “Being able to make my parents proud and being able to live up to their expectations, even how basic it is, it’s still heartwarming.”
More than 7,000 miles away, Zong watched from Laos at about 8 a.m. as Yaay walked across the stage at 8 p.m. Minnesota time.
“It was just happy to see people that still love us to go support even though I wasn’t there,” Zong told Sahan Journal in an interview later, his voice cracking. “It was hard, but it’s just something that I was happy to see.”
He hopes to find ways to still be a part of his sons’ lives during big and small milestones.
“I hope that as they get older, they will understand the whole situation,” he said. “I hope that they do not hold on to say that I left willingly, that you know, that I had a choice, and I just went. That’s what’s going to hurt me the most.”
Not dead, but gone
Yaay’s maternal grandfather, Nhia Ying Lo, 67, also gave a speech at Yaay’s graduation party, telling Linda to have a big heart, and that she has a family to rely on. He bent over and cried into his hand at times, overcome with emotions.
Nhia Ying told Sahan Journal in an interview that what happened to Zong is unfair, given how the United States enlisted Hmong allies to fight in the Vietnam War.
The United States started to recruit Hmong men and boys in 1961 to fight in a CIA-backed operation against Vietnamese communists. An estimated one-fourth of the Hmong men and boys who were recruited died in service, according to the Minnesota Historical Society.
Following the end of the Vietnam War, Hmong people fled political persecution prompted by their alliance with the United States. Many ended up in Thai refugee camps. Many Hmong, including Zong, were born in the camps and later immigrated to the United States.
That generation of Hmong people don’t know the Lao culture or language, Nhia Ying said, and only have familiarity with the Hmong community in the United States.
“Why would they take people like this, with access to jobs, to go live in Laos? They know we are people who don’t know anything [in Laos],” he said.
When it was time for her speech, Yaay’s maternal grandmother, Chong Lo, 65, stood in front of him, one hand clasped over his shoulder.
“Help each other,” she said in Hmong. “Love your mom.”
She cried every time she talked about Zong, or heard his name mentioned at the party.
“I want people to see this, to know what the pain is like, that his life – he’s not dead, but he’s gone,” she said in an interview.
She pressed a tissue to her nose.
“For a family to actually survive this, the parent with the children has to work double — double shifts,” she said, crying so hard she could barely finish her sentence.
Seeing Yaay and Kenji helping Linda gives her some relief, she added. Linda’s sister and brother, Pa Houa and John Lor, who live in Minnesota, regularly visit the Yang family to help with the children.
“We’re never going to be able to replicate his dad, but we’re here to just show our love and support in every way possible, because he’s [Yayy] as much as our son, and that’s [Zong] as much as our father as well,” Pa Houa said. “It’s good to see [Yaay] pass his milestone, but it’s also a little bitter because you wish everyone could join you.”
Most of their family members were playing volleyball when Yaay and King returned to his graduation party after a 10-minute absence to change Yaay out of his muddy clothes. Yaay let go of King’s hand. King took a few steps, and glanced back at Yaay with a look of uncertainty on his face.
“Go,” Yaay said softly, motioning to the playground.
Dozens of relatives from both sides of the family awaited them.
“Seeing everyone here,” Yaay said, “it’s nice, and I think I also needed this – just to see all the people who are there to back me up, and help me, and just give me something to work for and not fail.”
