The Happiest Refugee: A Memoir (3 page)

My grandfather was in the army, so Grandma was left to look after ten kids on her own in the little hut, and they eked out an existence on one soldier’s meagre wages. The family were so poor that all nine boys would sleep on the floor in a row. At night Grandma would move along and simply count the feet to make sure there were eighteen. At dinnertime each child would sit down on the dirt floor in a circle, pick up their little bowl of rice and in the middle of the circle there would be a tiny plate of sweet potato, seasoned heavily with salt so the flavour would last as long as possible with the rice. Any type of meat was a rare and special event.

One of my dad’s earliest memories as a kid was receiving big pats on the back for catching three little fish from a nearby stream. Dad’s father cooked them up in a broth of rice and sweet potatoes and the flavour of the fish permeated right through the vegetables. It was one of the best meals of his childhood.

One afternoon during the war my father was walking home with his brother, Six, one of the adopted boys, and they found themselves in the middle of Vietcong gunfire. He and his brother had to run away, literally skipping through the gunshots hitting the ground. Once they were safe, they realised that everyone else had fled the village and they were alone. They noticed a huge plum tree nearby. Dad had had his eye on this tree for some time and he really hated the idea that these Vietcong soldiers would get to enjoy its fruit. He and Uncle Six climbed the tree and picked as many plums as they could, wrapped them up in their shirts and took them home. That afternoon all ten siblings feasted on as many plums as they could eat—my uncles still talk fondly about the famous ‘plum banquet’.

Uncle Thanh and Uncle Huy had been in the re-education camp for three years, and during that time saw many prisoners die around them. Some died of sickness, some of starvation, some were executed. My uncles had misrepresented their true rank in the army to their captors; playing down their role because they were fearful of the repercussions. They spent their time in the camps terrified of what might happen if the truth became known. My mum was understandably anxious about her brothers and my father could see that his young wife was worried. As usual Dad decided to take matters into his own hands.

The strange thing about civil wars is that often good friends and, sometimes, even family end up on opposite sides. Dad had a friend called Vu, whose uncle had become a high-ranking communist official. Dad had known Vu just about all his life and he asked a huge favour of his friend: ‘Vu, when your uncle goes north next week, I need you to sneak in and borrow a uniform and some paperwork for me.’

One sunny afternoon my father walked into the remote re-education camp dressed as a high-ranking communist officer. He marched right through the front door of the commanding officer’s room.

‘These two men need to come with me,’ he demanded. The commanding officer was bewildered. He was afraid to disobey such a high-ranking official so he did not resist. My father then walked my uncles out of the camp, right through the front gate.

My mother’s family were stunned, and of course delighted to have their sons home again. Their son-in-law may have been skinny with wonky teeth, but his bravery, in the face of extreme danger, was breathtaking.

My extended family pooled all their money, called in favours with friends and relatives and sold everything they had—every possession—just to buy a boat. Getting your hands on a boat was an extremely risky business. They were only available on the black market and anyone caught trying to buy one could be jailed or killed. After a couple of false starts they finally managed to acquire a small vessel.

It was old and creaky and stank of fish. Sleeping quarters were basic—a few wooden benches in a cabin just under the water-line. If nature called, you would have to deal with it in a bucket or over the edge. The deck had long wooden seats on one side, where the youngsters and older family members could rest. If you wanted protection from the elements, you had to go below. Everyone would be exposed to the sun and wind.

The boat was nine metres long by two and a half metres wide and there would be forty people crowded on board—immediate family, uncles (including the two who had been in the camps for three years), aunts and friends, including toddlers, babies and teenagers whose parents were too old or sick to make the journey. No belongings would be taken except the clothes on their backs, though everyone had been stockpiling food and water for months. There wasn’t a lot but enough to last the week they expected to be at sea. Any leftover funds were swapped for small amounts of gold, the ‘international currency’, in the hope that wherever we ended up it could be traded for local money.

My dad and uncles had spent hours huddled together at night planning the escape. The goal was to reach Malaysia and the journey was going to be complicated and potentially life threatening.

There was a canal system around the village where our family lived and a smaller boat would have to be inconspicuously navigated through the waterways to reach the main boat. My father, then twenty-five years old, was designated captain of the boat because he was the only one who knew how to navigate the small waterways to get out to sea.

Dad’s skills had been finely honed. He had previously sold coal at the markets at 4 a.m. every morning and had to navigate his way through the canals to get there. Each day as he went off to work the sky was pitch-black and there was always a prevailing crosswind, which made it easy to crash the boat along the way. He would watch small patches of reflections from moonlight on the leaves of trees lining the bank. He could tell by the play of light whether to guide the canoe forward or turn it sideways.

The day of our departure arrived and Dad woke in the early hours. Many of our family members who were going on the boat had stayed at Grandma’s house the night before departure, because it was near the canals. The house was still dark but Dad could hear murmuring in the women’s room. He tiptoed to the door and could just make out the dim outline of his mother kneeling, hands clasping her rosary beads. Several months before, she had lost two of her sons in their quest to leave Vietnam. She was now praying for her children who were departing that day. Dad felt grief and guilt at having to leave her behind. He also felt a surge of fear as he remembered the fate of the journey that had taken the lives of brothers Five and Seven.

Dad came into our room and in the darkness kissed his wife and two sleeping sons.

‘
Bo Thoung Con Qua.
’ I love you, my sons.

He then tiptoed through the house and stepped out into the cold night air, bracing himself for his last day in Vietnam.

Our group of forty did not head out together that day. Starting early, under cover of darkness, we set off in groups of three or four in small motorised canoes that were usually used for carrying food to the morning markets. This process took many hours because the main boat, ‘the Motherfish’, was so far away, the canoes had to follow different convoluted routes through the canals so that they didn’t attract attention. The communists were on the alert for potential boat people and everyone knew there was a chance you could get stopped and caught by the army. If anyone stopped them, they would say they were going out to their fishing boat in the bay.

Mum and my baby brother, Khoa, left on one of the first canoes. Dad’s brother, Uncle Eight, piloted the boat while Mum and Khoa hid inside the tiny little steerage hatch. Uncle Eight hoisted several big heavy bags of corn into the boat and used them to cover the opening of the hatch so Mum and Khoa couldn’t be seen. Mum stuffed chunks of sticky rice into Khoa’s mouth so that he wouldn’t wail at the wrong moment. This was a foolproof plan because at fifteen months of age my brother had already earned the nickname ‘Fatty’. He was a very good eater.

I was two and a half years old and sent on a separate boat with Mum’s brother Uncle Thanh and his wife, Aunty Huong. Dad had decided that it was too risky for Mum to take both children, in case we were too noisy. Uncle Thanh drove the boat and I hid inside the hatch with my aunty. Just as we were approaching an army patrol boat in the canal I decided that I was sick of having rice stuffed in my mouth and started crying for my mum.

‘Shhhh!’ Uncle Thanh hissed. ‘Get him to be quiet!’

‘I can’t! What can I do?’ panicked Aunty Huong as she jiggled me up and down and tried to cover my mouth, half-suffocating me. The more she tried, the louder I screamed.

‘Here, give him this’, said Uncle Thanh as he shoved his arm through the corn bags and handed my Aunty his gold wedding ring. She gave it to me, and I straight away put it into my little mouth, which freaked her out and made her forcibly pry open my jaw to retrieve the ring before I choked to death. This made me wail even louder and the patrol boat got closer still. Thankfully, just as it approached us, Uncle Thanh realised it was just a fishing boat. The group of fishermen stared at this canoe with a strange lone man who they had heard wailing like a baby, then telling himself to shush up in a woman’s voice. My uncle told me later that, by the look on their faces, they knew what we were doing but just turned a blind eye.

Earlier in the day, before the rest of the boats started their trips out to the Motherfish, Dad had made his way quietly down to a little canoe at the water’s edge. Dad’s knowledge of the canals and his seamanship made him vital to the success of our journey—he couldn’t risk being caught. He also had with him all the equipment we would need for the escape, like maps and compasses. If he were spotted the whole thing would have to be aborted.

Waiting for Dad at the boat were two teenage boys, Kiet and Toan. Dad’s plan was to paddle the motor-less canoe, with the help of the two boys, fifty kilometres through the waterways and then out to the open sea. Dad and the two boys jumped into the canoe and commenced their marathon paddle.