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The Daily Cardinal Est. 1892
Wednesday, October 01, 2025

The Hmong: A different kind of immigrant

The Yang house is silent and dark. A white custom Chevy van waits in the driveway, gradually losing its fight with rust. Across the street, a defective streetlight hesitates and flickers off. Suddenly, the Yang rooster crows from the garage. The streetlight flickers back on. The rooster crows again, insistent this time. Once more.  

 

 

 

A dilapidated station wagon rounds the corner, reflecting the malfunctioning light in a dirty blue. Again, the rooster crows in awkward competition with a flourish of chirping birds. A distant light glows yellow, barely perceptible, from behind a plain curtain. Now the Yang window is blocked by the occasional blur of occupants. The rooster has performed its task admirably. One of the blurs moves to the front door and opens it. Nhia Ying Yang peeks his head out into the musty fog.  

 

 

 

Nhia Ying is Hmong. He belongs to the Yang clan, one family in the growing Hmong population of Madison. According to data from the 2000 United States Census, nearly 20 percent of the 170,000 Hmong living in the United States are in Wisconsin. Many of the clans in Madison congregate within a six-block region between Park Street and Fish Hatchery Road near the Beltline.  

 

 

 

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The population of the Midwest is growing increasingly more diverse. Wisconsin has one of the largest populations of Hmong in the United States'about 50,000 and growing. The large, extended clanship of Hmong in Madison act to preserve their ancient culture. 

 

 

 

A people without a nation, the Hmong left China between the 18th and 19th centuries. They settled in the highlands of North Vietnam, Laos, Thailand and Burma and wanted to live independently within their tightly formed communities. When the local governments started to put pressure on the Hmong to assimilate, a long history of resistance began.  

 

 

 

The Hmong, seeking help with their cause to maintain independence under the advancing threat of communism, sought support first from colonial France and then the United States. When both Western powers left the area, the Hmong were again under the domination of an oppressive majority rule. Relocation was again the only solution. An agreement formed with the American military allowed many Hmong to emigrate to the United States. 

 

 

 

Nhia Yang and his family are refugees. And like most other Hmong, they cling tightly to their beliefs in a culture spread thickly on the floors and walls of the Yang house. Today is both a celebration and a pious religious ceremony. Today, a shaman will travel into the spirit world to find the soul of Uncle Nhia. Today is the ma neeb (pronounced wa-nang). 

 

 

 

Inside the Yang house, preparation for the ma neeb begins. Nhia's wife, Tong, modestly dons her jacket as the stranger enters. Yeng, her youngest, lies on the sofa waiting for guidance. The head of young Xee appears from the hallway, followed by its spindly body and sister, Leng. Five more children pour from the hall. They are Ia, Kia, Chia, Youa and Yer. When Tong gives an order, the children disperse in an explosion of activity. Each wall holds a cache of photos, all of children, all of different sizes. The front door swings open to reveal Yang Yang, 'nephew' of Nhia.  

 

 

 

'He is my uncle's cousin, but I call him uncle,' Yang says. 'Everyone of his generation is called 'uncle'.'  

 

 

 

The Hmong want to be Hmong. They do not want to be Chinese. They do not want to be Lao. They do not want to be Thai. They do not want to be American. They want to be Hmong, and they defend that freedom to choose their own ethnicity. It is not a violent or vengeful defense, but a passive one. The Hmong simply resist assimilation by creating their own communities within the status quo.  

 

 

 

Under these circumstances, the interaction between Hmong tradition and conventional American confidence frequently results in cross-cultural frustration and misunderstanding. The ma neeb is no exception. Seen through American eyes, the ceremony may be viewed as an interesting slice of an infrequently experienced culture. At worst, the ma neeb may be viewed as primitive or barbaric. 

 

 

 

'Now we will get the pigs,' Yang says. 

 

 

 

Uncle Nhia loads three large Rubbermaid containers into his vehicles. Two go into the rusty Chevy van, along with Yang. The third is placed into a clean 4x4 sitting in front of the garage, along with Uncle Song Tu, a recent arrival. The rooster has long since stopped crowing. His job is done'for now.  

 

 

 

Justin Reddeman sells pigs.  

 

 

 

'I get anywhere from three to 10 Hmong customers each weekend,' he says as he cuts a three-foot length of twine. 'Otherwise, I don't sell live pigs too often.'  

 

 

 

His barn reeks of methane and pig feed. Pig waste splatters onto shoes, pants and shirt. Yang is incensed. Song Tu ignores the filth and shops for three pigs.  

 

 

 

'The shaman says we need three pigs so we get three pigs,' Song Tu says. 

 

 

 

The shaman, in this case a 63-year-old woman, is the spiritual healer of the Hmong community. Though shamans often have jobs in the secular world as well, many rely predominantly on the offerings of the Hmong community. 

 

 

 

'There's no charge for her service,' Yang says, 'but we offer something to help her.' 

 

 

 

In addition to calling for the return of Uncle Nhia's soul, the shaman is performing a major spiritual cleansing of the Yang household. Today's ma neeb is a special one for the Yangs.  

 

 

 

'The last one we had was in 1991,' Nhia says. 'This one is so our family has luck for another 10 years.' An onlooker, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, peels a grapefruit. 'It's kinda like getting your oil changed.' 

 

 

 

'Maybe a week before, my uncle approached the shaman and told her he needed her help,' Yang says. 'We don't ask. We just say 'we need help.' Then the shaman schedules a date and talks to the spirits to find out what we need to get.' 

 

 

 

'It's a careful selection process,' Reddeman says. He steps into the pen to stir up the selection. 'These are $60. Those are $70.' 

 

 

 

'Do we get a discount for three'? asks Yang, partially disguising the question as a joke.  

 

 

 

'You'd have to ask my father-in-law'and he's not here,' Reddemen replies. 

 

 

 

Song Tu selects two small pigs and one larger one. 'We have to give a part of the pig to the shaman,' he says, 'and the rest will be fed to the guests.'  

 

 

 

Reddeman plucks the first pig from its pen and ties its feet with the pre-cut sections of twine. It squeals in protest. The pig continues to squeal until loaded into the Rubbermaid container and placed in the van.  

 

 

 

The Yang house is filling rapidly with other Yangs. Hmong movies from China and Thailand play in the VCR. The living room carpet is covered with thin plastic to protect it from footprint and blood stains. Uncles and cousins, nieces and nephews sit around a card table folding special Chinese paper into boats.  

 

 

 

'The boats are money to free the good spirits and to bribe the bad spirits,' Song Tu explains. 'It's like paying bail.' 

 

 

 

The shaman sits patiently near the altar where she will perform the ma neeb. The small table is adorned with tools of the shaman trade: incense, candle, rice, holy water and the 'bail money.' On the floor sit a knife, gong and spurs. Each is wrapped in red ribbon and has a special purpose.  

 

 

 

The knife is used to defend against the evil spirits. The gong and spurs are used to call the good spirit back to its home, the candle to light its way and the rice to sustain it on its journey. If the evil spirits cause trouble, the good spirit will plunge into the water. In front of the home-made altar is a bench.  

 

 

 

'It is a horse,' Song Tu says. 'It will take the shaman to the spirit world.' 

 

 

 

Everything has a purpose. The good spirits must be found, convinced and paid to come back home to the body. The evil spirits must be bribed, threatened, confused and distracted. 

 

 

 

The Hmong were considered a minority in every land they have settled. They continue to be such in the United States. Never has there existed a Hmong 'majority' with its own sovereign border or recognized government body. In that sense, they differ from other leading immigrant groups. They have a pre-existing ethnic identity and are accustomed to being the 'others.'  

 

 

 

In order to survive in a dominant culture while also retaining an independent ethnicity, the Hmong practice what has been coined by anthropologist George De Vos as 'selective permeability' in 1978. Selective permeability involves a process of screening cultural icons and behaviors through a filter of cultural belief. Only those ideas that do not conflict with Hmong traditional beliefs will pass the screen. For that reason, belief in the spirit world retains its strength amidst a new dominant culture-American.  

 

 

 

'I guess some people call it 'animism,'' Yang says.  

 

 

 

The basis of animism is in the spirit world.  

 

 

 

'The human body has about 12 spirits,' Yang says. 'There are bad spirits and good spirits. All animals have spirits ... including the pigs. We use their spirits to communicate and perform tasks for us.' 

 

 

 

The pigs have all been unloaded into the garage, alongside a box of four chickens and the now-quiet rooster. A rope is tied around the neck of one pig, eyes wide from fear. Its heavy breath is amplified by the plastic container. The other end of the rope runs to the bench. It will be tied to Uncle Nhia and his family when the shaman performs the ma neeb.  

 

 

 

'The rope is to lead the pig's soul to the spirit world,' Yang says. 

 

 

 

The shaman sets to work. Standing in front of the altar, she opens the lines of communication with the spirits. As she calls to the spirits, she begins to grease the spiritual palms with money. Piece after piece of the special paper is burned to facilitate its conversion to the spirit world. A direct line of communication is created between the shaman's horse and the altar.  

 

 

 

'No one can walk between them,' Yang says. 'If they do, the shaman will freeze and will not be able to complete the ceremony.' 

 

 

 

The extended Yang family continues cooking, snacking and folding money. On the stove sits large aluminum pots filled with rice. After each rice pot cooks, Ia adds its contents to an even larger plastic bowl. The ceremony continues amidst chatting, playing and Hmong movies. The children, who have seen it all before, exhibit a patient indifference.  

 

 

 

'It's weird,' says Kia, the second eldest daughter. 'But we have to do it.' 

 

 

 

The shaman uses two polished halves of a water buffalo horn to check her connection to the spirit world. She repeatedly tosses them to the ground like dice'two flat sides up means the spirits are not listening. If the halves land flat side down, the lines of communication have been opened and the spirits are ready to take requests. One throw, no answer. Another throw, no answer. A third, the spirits are ready to listen. 

 

 

 

Uncle Nhia mounts the horse. The shaman will repeat the cleansing ceremony twice over the next two hours. First, Uncle Nhia will be 'treated' individually, and then his family as a whole. Wearing the traditional red hood of the ma neeb, the shaman begins to chant.  

 

 

 

'I don't know what she is saying,' Yang says. 'But the old people do.'  

 

 

 

The 'old people' are first-generation refugees. They were dealt the brunt of the oppression in Laos before coming to the United States. They are the generation responsible for putting the Hmong community back together in Wisconsin. Immediately after the Vietnam War, first generation Hmong were scattered randomly throughout the United States.  

 

 

 

As the initial settlement process slowed, a second, internal migration occurred as these Hmong sought reunification with distant kinship groups, bent on retaining and reconnecting with their clan network'their culture. The majority finally settled in California, Minnesota, Michigan and Wisconsin into neighborhoods like the Yangs', taking with them the tradition of the ma neeb. 

 

 

 

While she chants, the shaman ties the pig's rope around Uncle Nhia. He talks with his relatives as the shaman tucks flowing sheets of money into the collar of his T-shirt.  

 

 

 

'All this is done,' Yang says, 'to keep the spirit at home. Otherwise, it might leave and get lost.' 

 

 

 

With Uncle Nhia still tied to the pig, the shaman walks to the garage with the bowl of uncooked rice. Standing over the Rubbermaid container, the shaman spreads handful after handful of rice onto the pig's head, chanting.  

 

 

 

'She is asking to use its soul,' Yang says.  

 

 

 

The bull horn tells her that it understands. She goes back inside to link the pig's soul to Uncle Nhia's. The cousins take the pig to the basement. 

 

 

 

For centuries, the Hmong have relied on these traditional healers for medical and psychological care. Shamans were frequently the only health care providers available in Southeast Asia. They served the Hmong before they came to the United States and continue to do so. Shamans do not get paid for their work, but typically receive the head and right arm of the largest pig offered in the ma neeb.  

 

 

 

'Sometimes,' Yang says, 'we offer a bit of a donation to help her since she doesn't work.'  

 

 

 

'This day will cost me about $1,000,' Nhia says. 

 

 

 

In the basement, uncles, cousins and brothers gather around the Rubbermaid container. One brother reaches down and slowly tips it until the writhing pig slides onto the concrete floor. Its soul will soon be set to work. As large aluminum pots boil on the blue flames of propane; as sisters, nieces and aunts chop celery, chives and spinach; and as young Yer sits, passively watching a Spiderman rerun, his brother pierces the pig's throat with a freshly sharpened paring knife. 

 

 

 

Outside, the older Yangs lean and chat while the younger ones play hopscotch on the sidewalk. Cars pass and curious heads turn toward the house. Music from a car stereo interrupts a lively debate between Uncle Song Tu and a distant cousin. He is busy hanging a string of knives across the front porch handrails. They dangle lightly like icicles from winter eaves. 

 

 

 

'When the spirits return from their trip, these will stop the bad spirits but let the good spirits through,' Song Tu says. 'They are like an oil filter.'  

 

 

 

In the yard, an unfamiliar man stands with Uncle Nhia. From a distance, they seem to be carrying on a harmless conversation. But they are actually performing an important part of the ma neeb ceremony.  

 

 

 

'That other man is also a shaman,' Kia says, emerging from the house when her duties are finished. 'He is bringing the soul back to the house.' 

 

 

 

Together, they walk to the front door, past the 'oil filter.' They stop just before entering the home. The shaman brokers a deal with a relative on the inside. He is arranging for the safe return of Uncle Nhia's soul to its home. Across the threshold lies one of the pigs, adorned with spirit money'the bribe. It separates the soul from the waiting family. Once an agreement is made, Nhia steps over the pig into the living room.  

 

 

 

A brother cuts the head and right arm from the pig for the shaman. A car passes, throbbing with hip-hop music. A young cousin gathers up spent spirit money, feet slapping across the plasticized carpet. A Chinese movie plays on TV. A wife stirs a pot of boiling vegetables. The Yang clan prepares for the feast. Yang looks on.  

 

 

 

'My uncle's spirit is here,' he says. 'Now we get to eat.'

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