Freedom Beyond Borders
This past summer, America celebrated its Semiquincentennial — 250 years of independence — with freedom as its central theme. I had witnessed the Bicentennial in 1976, and I wanted to experience this milestone in Washington, D.C., as well.
I invited my son to join me. He hesitated, citing traffic, crowds, and record-breaking heat. I told him I hoped to be around for the Tricentennial, but I wasn’t taking any chances. 🙂 He reluctantly agreed.
Thunderstorms delayed the celebration, and the fireworks did not commence until just before midnight. More than 850,000 shells illuminated the sky in what organizers called a world-record display. By morning, health officials were warning people to avoid outdoor exercise because of poor air quality.
As unforgettable as the spectacle was, it was not the fireworks I kept thinking about afterward — it was the word we had all gathered to celebrate. What, exactly, do we mean by freedom?
The question stayed with me, prompting me to reflect on my own experiences and on how other societies understand this powerful idea.
That question — what freedom actually means — is one travel has helped me answer. Among the freedoms I value most is the ability to cross borders and see how other societies define the word for themselves. Travel has taught me that freedom is not uniquely American. It exists in many forms, shaped by history, culture, and circumstance.
In Switzerland, freedom is expressed through direct democracy. In Denmark, it is reinforced by social trust and an economic system that allows people to take risks without fearing financial ruin. In countries such as Iran and Venezuela, political repression and economic instability have sharply constrained both freedom and opportunity.
These differences are not just impressionistic — they’re measurable. Freedom is multidimensional — political, economic, religious, and personal — and nations can excel in one dimension while struggling in another. The Human Freedom Index, published by the Cato Institute and Canada’s Fraser Institute, evaluates countries using measures that include the rule of law, freedom of movement, and freedom of expression. The United States now ranks lower than it did two decades ago — a reminder that freedom is not something societies simply inherit. It must be protected and renewed.
But freedom’s variations are not only about how nations differ from one another — they are also about how one nation’s articulation of freedom rippled outward and was remade by others. Many of the principles embodied in the Declaration of Independence were themselves rooted in the writings of the English philosopher John Locke, whose ideas about natural rights and government by consent of the governed helped shape America’s founding. America’s pursuit of freedom did not end at its borders — it traveled. The Declaration became one of history’s most influential political documents, inspiring revolutionaries in France, independence movements across Latin America, Haiti’s struggle against colonial rule, and the founding of Liberia.
Its influence can be seen in the words of later declarations, too. Greece’s 1822 constitution drew directly from it. Czechoslovakia’s 1918 declaration — drafted by Tomáš Masaryk in Washington, D.C. — explicitly cited “the principles expressed in the American Declaration of Independence.” Israel’s 1948 declaration likewise adopted it as a philosophical framework.
Perhaps nowhere did the Declaration’s words travel more unexpectedly than to Vietnam.
Early in my career, I met an entrepreneur named Bảo whose story I have never forgotten. As a child, he and his family were among Vietnam’s “boat people,” escaping Saigon under cover of darkness in a small fishing boat before eventually reaching a refugee camp in the Philippines and resettling in California.
His parents arrived with little English and few possessions, but they brought something even more valuable: an unwavering belief in education. They worked tirelessly and encouraged Bảo to dream beyond his circumstances. He did. After graduating from the University of Pennsylvania, he worked at Bell Labs and McKinsey before founding a software company in Silicon Valley.
That was when our paths crossed.
Bảo was raising venture capital, and what intrigued investors was where the work was being done: more than 300 software engineers, all based in Saigon, developing software for customers in the United States and Europe at costs that rivaled those in China and India.
As part of that investment, I traveled with Bảo to Vietnam for the first time and quickly fell in love with the country. He ultimately raised millions of dollars in venture capital and spent the majority of each month managing operations there.
I often thought about what that meant for his parents back in California. They had fled a war-torn country with almost nothing, sacrificed to educate their son in America, and then watched him return — not as a refugee, but as a successful entrepreneur helping build Vietnam’s technology sector.
His life became a bridge between two countries whose relationship had once been defined by war.
That story returned to me this May, when TCC held its International Conference in Hanoi. The conference was a tremendous success, and I am deeply grateful to my TCC colleagues whose dedication made it possible. Although I could not attend, I had recently visited the city, and the conference prompted me to reflect on Vietnam’s own journey toward freedom — the very story Bảo’s family had lived through.
In 1945, standing in what is now Ba Dinh Square, Ho Chi Minh opened Vietnam’s Declaration of Independence by quoting Thomas Jefferson: “All men are created equal.” He hoped the United States would support Vietnam’s struggle for independence from France, just as America had once sought independence from Britain.
History unfolded differently, and within a generation the two nations were at war. Yet it remains remarkable that the words Americans celebrate every Fourth of July also became part of Vietnam’s founding story.
Following the fall of Saigon in 1975, nearly two million Vietnamese fled by sea — Bảo’s family among them. Many thousands died from storms, starvation, or piracy. Those who survived built thriving communities around the world—including families like Bảo’s — echoing generations of immigrants who have shaped America itself.
Vietnam broadened my understanding of freedom. Americans often think first of individual liberty: the freedom to speak openly, worship as we choose, and live without unnecessary government interference. Vietnam reminded me of another dimension. After centuries of foreign domination — from imperial China to French colonial rule to decades of war — freedom there has often meant a people’s ability to determine its own future.
Neither perspective is sufficient on its own. Together, they illustrate how history shapes the meaning of freedom.
That interplay — between one nation’s ideals and the world’s use of them—is itself the story of the Declaration. Two hundred fifty years ago, the Declaration of Independence gave birth to a nation. Since then, its words have been translated, borrowed, and reimagined by people pursuing freedom under vastly different circumstances.
Standing beside my son that night, I realized we were witnessing more than America’s birthday. We were honoring an idea that has traveled far beyond America’s shores—sometimes faithfully, sometimes imperfectly, but always with extraordinary power. The fireworks over Washington celebrated one nation’s history. But the aspiration they honored has never belonged to America alone. It belongs to anyone, anywhere, willing to risk something for the hope of living a little freer.
