Sang, the protagonist of Weronika Mliczewska’s Child of Dust, is one of countless children left behind by American soldiers after  the Vietnam War. Stigmatized and abandoned, he spends a lifetime  longing for the father he never had. When he unexpectedly locates his  gravely ill father in the United States, he is determined to meet him,  even at a heavy cost—leaving his wife, daughter, and grandson behind. 

The Vietnam War (1955–1975) left lasting  scars on millions, particularly the estimated  300,000 Amerasian children, like Sang, born to  American servicemen and Vietnamese  women. Dubbed “children of dust,” they  were often abandoned, stigmatized, and  marginalized due to their mixed heritage.  In Vietnam, where paternal lineage defines  social standing, growing up without a  father rendered these children nearly  invisible. A Vietnamese saying captures  this sentiment: “A child without a father is  like a house without a roof.” 

After the war, many Amerasians faced  extreme discrimination, seen as reminders  of the enemy. They were denied education  and economic opportunities, and their  mothers—often ostracized for their  relationships with U.S. soldiers—sometimes  destroyed any evidence of their children’s  American heritage, making it even harder  for them to trace their roots. 

In the 1980s, the U.S. passed the Amerasian  Homecoming Act, offering Amerasians  and their families the chance to immigrate.  However, the transition was fraught with  challenges. Many arrived in the U.S. only  to encounter racism, cultural barriers,  and economic hardship. While the law  acknowledged their American lineage,  it did not ensure their integration into  society. Sang, like many before him, arrives  in a country that recognizes him on paper  but leaves him to navigate an unfamiliar  world alone—illiterate, disconnected, and  without the support system he once had  in Vietnam. 

His experience reflects the broader  struggles of immigrants and refugees  today—whether it’s undocumented  individuals seeking asylum, DREAMers  fighting to stay in the only home they’ve  ever known, or families separated by  shifting policies. America has long been  seen as a land of opportunity, but for  those who don’t fit an idealized image of  belonging, that promise often remains out  of reach. 

For over 50 years, Vietnam and its people were denied a human face in  American war narratives, allowing propaganda to justify past violence.  Child of Dust challenges this erasure, asking how nations reckon with  the long-term consequences of war. It serves as a stark reminder that  unchecked nationalism and unexamined history leave the door open for  future conflicts. Through Sang’s journey, Child of Dust sheds light on this forgotten history,  revealing how the legacy of war continues  to shape lives today. 

INTERVIEW WITH THE DIRECTOR

WERONIKA MLICZEWSKA, Child of Dust, by Dimitra Kouzi

Weronika Mliczewska is a documentary filmmaker and cultural anthropologist. Child of Dust is her feature-length documentary debut as a director and a producer - a project she has worked on for over eight years.

Child of Dust explores the long-term consequences of war. Half a century after the Vietnam War, what echoes of its impact do you see in today’s world?

The Vietnam War may have ended, but its consequences—displacement, trauma, and the struggle for identity—are still deeply felt. The film serves as a reminder that war doesn’t simply end when the fighting stops—it continues in the lives of those forced to navigate its aftermath. In Child of Dust, the protagonists can no longer suppress their past; they must confront it, as it defines their future. These themes resonate strongly today. From conflicts in the Middle East to the war in Ukraine, we see cycles of forced migration, rape, sending children to camps, exposing them to propaganda, and inherited trauma. If the wounds of war are not transformed into healing, history will inevitably repeat itself. This film is not just about the Vietnam War—it’s about all wars and the scars that remain unseen.

Displacement and identity are major issues in today’s migration crises. Looking at today’s rising nationalism, do you see parallels between the struggles of Amerasians after the Vietnam War and marginalized communities today?

Amerasians embody the lasting scars of war—caught between worlds, unwanted by both sides. Today, children born in war zones face the same fate, pushed to society’s margins as painful reminders of the past. Sang refuses to stay trapped in this role, but escaping it is not easy. His struggle mirrors those of many marginalized communities today, especially amid rising nationalism. They are blamed for simply existing, yet their displacement is the result of political choices made long before them. This film isn’t about blame.

Sang’s journey is about the search for identity in a world that constantly defines you. What does his story reveal about self-discovery and belonging?

Sang’s journey begins with a deep longing for belonging, shaped by a culture where fatherhood defines identity. Without love and acceptance as a child, he carries a lifelong sense of inadequacy. Over time, he realizes that identity is not fixed but shaped by experience, displacement, and self-discovery. Rather than providing a definitive answer, the film explores what it means to define oneself in a world that imposes labels. By the end, Sang is free from the pain of the past and culture-based expectations. He no longer seeks validation—he follows his own path, breaking free from childhood trauma and forging his own sense of self.

How do you see Sang’s story resonating with contemporary refugee and immigrant experiences? Does his journey reflect the broader impact of immigration policies on those seeking a home in America?

Sang’s journey mirrors the struggles of many immigrants—caught between cultures, seeking belonging in a place that defines them as “other.” More than legal barriers, the film explores the emotional cost of migration—the longing for home, fractured identities, and the need to prove one’s worth. His American family assumes that moving to the U.S. is the best thing for him, but his journey isn’t about seeking a better life—it’s about healing. Branded an outsider since birth, he longs for acceptance and love, only to realize that no place or person can fill that void. The true transformation happens within him. This film also challenges how we perceive migration. We rarely ask why people leave. Conflicts may seem distant, but their ripple effects shape global politics and individual lives, proving how deeply interconnected we all are.

The film’s climax centers on Sang’s realization that true healing does not come from proximity to his father but from accepting the past and reclaiming his own narrative. How did this shape the film’s resolution?Sang’s realization that true healing comes not from finding his father but from accepting his past and taking control of his own story deeply influenced the film’s resolution. Rather than offering a conventional reunion or closure, the ending reflects the complexity of identity and the emotional weight of intergenerational trauma. The film shifts from an external search—finding a father—to an internal journey of self-acceptance, emphasizing that healing is not about rewriting the past but about redefining the future. By the final moments, Sang is no longer seeking validation from someone else. Instead, he begins to see himself as whole, regardless of the unresolved pieces of his history. This quieter, more reflective resolution stays true to the film’s observational approach, allowing the audience to sit with the ambiguity of his journey, just as Sang does.

The film follows both Sang and his American family, who discover they have an unwanted member they never knew about. Why did you choose to jump between these two worlds?

In Child of Dust, I wanted to show a rare example of a family taking responsibility for their actions, despite how difficult and uncomfortable that process is. It is deeply concerning that even veterans, who lived through the war, still struggle to see the full scale of its impact—not just on the Vietnamese, but on their own people. Many who killed during the war still justify their actions through propaganda, telling themselves they were fighting communism. This mindset hasn’t faded, and for over 50 years, a human face has been denied to the Vietnamese people. There are no winners in war, and this lack of reflection leaves a dangerous window open for future violence fueled by nationalist and imperialist agendas—without truly understanding the cost.

You used an observational, character-driven approach for your first feature-length documentary. Why did you choose this style over a more traditional “interview” format?

I chose an observational, character-driven approach to immerse viewers in Sang’s world, allowing emotions to unfold naturally. This story is full of raw, life-changing moments, and I wanted the audience to experience them as they happen, rather than through guided explanations. Everyday interactions, body language, and silences often speak louder than words, creating a deeper emotional connection. Skipping direct interviews was an intentional choice—a matter of trust. I trusted the audience to interpret Sang’s journey, and I trusted Sang to reveal himself through action.

How did you use cinematography and sound design to reflect Sang’s emotional journey in the film’s natural soundscapes and visual metaphors?

We used cinematography and sound design to mirror Sang’s inner world. In Vietnam, a handheld camera captures his turmoil with intimate close-ups. In the U.S., wider, static shots emphasize his isolation. Natural soundscapes—traffic hum, distant voices, rustling leaves— immerse the audience in his experience. Instead of a heavy score, silence and subtle ambient sounds amplify his loneliness and moments of connection. By embracing quiet observation and poetic realism, we allow the audience to feel Sang’s journey rather than dictate it.

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What are your main influences in cinema or other art forms?

My biggest influences come from filmmakers who master visual storytelling with a rich atmosphere, character-driven narratives, and subtle humor. Jim Jarmusch has been a major inspiration—his minimalist yet poetic style captures the quiet awkwardness of human interactions. His characters don’t always find resolution, but their journeys—both external and internal—are deeply felt. Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation also influenced me, particularly its introspective tone and themes of alienation. The unexpected, often humorous cultural clashes in that film reflect my own experiences navigating different cultures, especially in Tokyo. For the second part of my film, I drew inspiration from Alexander Payne’s humanistic storytelling. He masterfully balances humor and melancholy in his portrayal of everyday life, an approach that helped me frame Sang’s journey—not just as one of hardship, but of self-discovery, and even moments of quiet absurdity.

How did your studies in anthropology and directing actors influence your filmmaking? My background in anthropology allowed me to approach Child of Dust with deep cultural sensitivity, ensuring Sang’s story was told with authenticity and respect. It helped me observe without imposing, allowing moments to unfold naturally rather than shaping them to fit a preconceived narrative. At the same time, my experience in directing actors influenced how I worked with real people—paying close attention to body language, subtext, and emotion to capture deeply personal, character-driven storytelling. This combination of anthropology and cinematic direction helped create a documentary that feels both observational and immersive, blurring the lines between reality and narrative cinema.

What were the biggest challenges in earning Sang’s trust and authentically portraying a Vietnamese story as a Polish filmmaker?

Sang trusted me because, for the first time, someone truly listened. He knew this film could give voice to a forgotten history. I was fortunate to have a strong Vietnamese team who helped build trust and preserve cultural authenticity. Their insights ensured that Sang’s story was told with care and respect. What moved me most was his strength—the courage to challenge his fate. Despite abandonment and uncertainty, he took control of his story, embracing change even when it meant struggle. His journey is a testament to resilience, proving that identity is not just inherited but shaped by choice.

You are both the director and the producer of this film. Did being the producer influence your creative decisions?

This film would not have been possible if the roles were different. Who else would have taken on such risks or gone into debt for years to bring this story to life? While I had experience as a producer, this was my first time producing and directing a feature-length documentary. After early setbacks—when no one believed in the project—we ended up securing five co-production partners and two TV stations. That alone speaks to the universal nature of this story. In the end, persistence and unwavering belief made this film happen. I am incredibly proud of the team behind it. Wearing both hats allowed me to maintain creative control while staying adaptable, ensuring that every decision—both artistic and logistical—served the heart of Sang’s journey.

During production, you had a baby. How difficult was it to balance filmmaking, family, and travel across three continents? As a female director, was it particularly challenging to manage a documentary shoot that couldn’t wait?

It was incredibly difficult, but it proved that nothing is impossible. If a female director wants to balance filmmaking, family, and a fulfilling personal life, I can now say: Go for it. It is possible! Rather than conforming to existing structures, we shape reality to fit our needs. I had immense support from my husband, which allowed me to shoot in Vietnam while four months pregnant. I remember sweating in a cramped, sweltering corridor with our protagonist and his family, thinking—this is my dream come true. It wasn’t about comfort; it was about passion. With the support of my husband, his mother, and his sister, we made it work—filming while pregnant, then traveling with our son, ensuring he felt loved and cared for through it all.

How do you see the role of fathers evolving in Western societies?

Fatherhood is shifting beyond the traditional role of provider, with fathers now expected to be more emotionally present. This evolution is why I wanted to explore fatherhood in my film—to question and redefine it across cultures. Regardless of where we begin, being a father reshapes identity, just as it does for mothers. The film suggests that parenting may be our most profound impact on the world, shaping future generations. As my protagonist says, “My home is my family”—a reminder that love, not politics or divisions, should be our foundation.

How did your personal experiences influence your approach to this story?

As a teenager, I was bullied and often felt like an outsider, which drew me to stories of displacement and identity. Beyond filmmaking, I’m also a cultural anthropologist, having studied in the UK, USA, and Poland. All my films have been made in Asia—Japan, India, China, and now Vietnam—exploring characters who exist between worlds. Navigating different cultures shaped my perspective, allowing me to connect with Sang’s journey on a deeper level and portray his story with empathy and authenticity.

What is the most important message about intergenerational trauma in Child of Dust?

Intergenerational trauma isn’t just history—it shapes identity, relationships, and belonging in the present. Sang’s journey asks whether breaking free from this cycle is truly possible. The outcome of his story is unexpected, unfolding in ways we couldn’t predict—just like life itself. We can’t always control what happens to us, but we can choose how we respond. And that’s Sang’s greatest strength. Some may see his story as tragic, but to me, he’s a winner. He took a risk, fulfilled his dream, and finally moved forward. If his journey inspires even one person, I’ve done my job.

What kinds of audiences do you seek for this film? How do you think different audiences will relate to Sang’s quest for identity?

This is a film about human connection, loss, and resilience—themes that transcend borders and speak to a global audience.

What do you hope for Child of Dust and its impact on global conversations about war, trauma, and reconciliation?

My goal is for the film to not only shed light on the forgotten stories of Amerasians but also to show how the consequences of war continue to shape lives across generations. More than anything, I want this film to highlight how imperialism and propaganda create divisions, fueling violence while justifying violence, even genocide. By making this film, I am making a statement: we need to heal from the past and focus on offering love to our children, ensuring history doesn’t repeat itself.

The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Child of Dust won a Special Mention at the Thessaloniki Documentary Festival 2025 International Competition

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