Small Bamboo (6 page)

We never had enough water to clean ourselves. You know those army helmets? Well, we got one of those filled with water for bathing—between six of us! Each day the guards made us gather in groups of six in the searing heat. We would squat down and huddle around each other. Then one of the guards would bring out a helmet filled with water, only one, and he would splash this tiny amount of water on us. That was our daily shower. But I came up with a trick. I managed to find a small hand towel and when the guard splashed water on me, I would try and catch the water with the towel so it was soaked. I kept that with me all day. It was my little saviour on those really hot days.

Most days were so tough, on our bodies and our minds. I didn’t know if I would ever get out of there alive. I wasn’t sure if I would see my wife and two children again. After a few years, my mind was numb, I felt like a robot. Doing the same thing every day, being starved, beaten and tortured. Also, because we weren’t fed enough, we couldn’t think straight. Some prisoners would ask the guards to shoot them so they didn’t have to live another day of this misery. But they just laughed at the prisoners. They would rather see us suffer than take the easy way out, which was to be killed.

It wasn’t just food and water that was scarce in those camps; medical supplies virtually didn’t exist. Disease spread like wildfire. The prisoners were so malnourished that their bodies couldn’t fight off deadly diseases such as malaria, beri beri and dysentery. Some of Uncle Eleven’s friends became very ill. They begged and begged for medicine but were never given any. Starvation and disease were the most common causes of death. American university research papers report that 165,000 people died in those re-education camps.

Family visits were few and far between. If the prisoners were lucky, their families came once every month or two, and the visits would last up to thirty minutes. It was difficult for the families to keep track of where their relatives were because the prisoners were constantly moved around. This was designed to prevent family contact and also to stop the prisoners from forming bonds with the guards. Uncle Eleven’s wife couldn’t travel because their children were young, so he would be visited by my grandparents, my Aunt Fifteen and her husband.

The last time my grandma visited Uncle Eleven was the day before she left Vietnam for Australia (my parents had sponsored my grandparents to migrate). It was 1984. The camp at Ben Gia, Tra Vinh, was very remote. A small minivan transported relatives to the prison but the journey was extremely dangerous. The road was in terrible condition and the van was crammed with supplies, so the passengers were forced to sit on the roof where the luggage normally went, hanging on grimly and keeping their heads down as they drove through enclosed road bridges. But my grandmother didn’t care about the dangers of getting to the camp—she needed to see her son because she didn’t know when, or if, she would ever see him again. After my grandmother left Vietnam, my Aunt Fifteen and her husband continued to make the perilous trip to visit Uncle Eleven every two months and take him food; this was, he says, his main means of survival.

As for Uncle Four, he was held in camps in North Vietnam, which made visits very difficult. The journey from the South would take about three days by train. It was an exhausting trip. Every opportunity they could get, Uncle Four’s wife, his eldest son, Anh Sy, and my grandma would make the journey north to see him. But on one visit Anh Sy wasn’t with them.

‘How is everything at home?’ Uncle Four asked his wife.

‘We’re coping,’ she replied. ‘We’re struggling a bit with money but everyone is.’

‘You look so skinny, Son,’ my grandma said. ‘We tried to bring you some food but the guards took it away.’

‘Why doesn’t my son come and visit?’ Uncle Four asked.

For a moment Aunt Four said nothing, then she hesitantly explained: ‘The guards only allowed a certain number of people to visit this time, so he couldn’t come.’

The visiting time was over and the guards were already at the gate. Aunt Four and Grandma said goodbye, promising to return soon with food. They did continue to visit every few months, which was as often as they could, but Uncle Four couldn’t understand why his eldest son no longer came with them.

The truth was, Aunt Four was keeping a tragic secret from her husband. It was 1983 and my cousin was sixteen years old. Anh Sy was much loved by my uncle because he was the eldest of the children, but he was also smart, strong and considerate, so the whole family was fond of him. At the time my Aunt Four was running a business collecting bus tickets and her eldest son was working for her. One afternoon, both Anh Sy and his mother were on the same bus; he was standing near the front door collecting tickets and she was sitting up the back, on their way home. Anh Sy had had a busy day and was very tired. It was quite a distance until the next bus stop so he decided to shut his eyes for a moment. And then he dozed off, but just for a second before jolting back awake. He stood up straight again, concentrating on keeping still as the bus sped along the road, but soon his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. Suddenly, there was an almighty crash and the passengers were screaming. Aunt Four rushed from the back of the bus to find out what was going on. She couldn’t see her son anywhere. Then, as she ran down the front steps, she saw her son on the road, covered in blood. She stopped breathing for a moment. He had fallen out of the bus while asleep (there were no front doors on the bus), and been run over by a truck. Aunt Four cradled her son on the road, wailing and crying. He had died instantly.

For the remaining time that Uncle Four was in the re-education camp, his wife did not tell him about the death of their son. Because of her husband’s fragile mental and physical health and the daily suffering he endured at the camp, she feared that the loss of their son would break him, and he might lose the will to live, or even try to commit suicide. So Aunt Four decided she would tell him when he was finally released.

In 1984, after Uncle Four had spent nine years in the North, he was moved to a camp in South Vietnam. He wasn’t told why he was being moved or how long he would be at the new camp, but he was much happier because at least he was closer to his family. The camp, known as Z30D, was one of three in the coastal town of Ham Tan. Surprisingly, the conditions were slightly better than the camps in the North—the prisoners were given a little more food and water—but it was still terrible. One of the last visitors to see Uncle Four at this camp was my grandfather, who travelled there with Aunt Four and Aunt Fifteen and her husband. Grandpa was about to migrate to Australia to live with us and he wanted to see his son before he left. For Grandpa, it was a day of two emotional extremes. He was grateful to see his son, but heartbroken to see he was still being held captive. He was devastated that two of his sons, my Uncle Four and Uncle Eleven, were still in these horrid camps. Grandpa just looked at his son as he talked; he was so skinny and tired but still managed to keep positive. As he said goodbye, Grandpa held his son as tight as he had ever held him.

In 1985, after a year in Ham Tan and after ten years trapped in re-education camps, being tortured and starved, Uncle Four was finally released. Of all my father’s brothers, he spent the longest time in the camps. Uncle Four realised then why the prisoners were given more food and water at camp Z30D: the government wanted them to look better before being freed, to show people that conditions weren’t so bad in the re-education camps. My uncle was never told why he was released. One day the guards just told him he was allowed to go.

A small group was released that day and as Uncle Four walked through the gates, he felt as if he were in a trance. He couldn’t believe that he was finally free. In that state of mind, he had no idea what to do and just started heading home. Ham Tan was quite a distance away, about 170 kilometres east of Ho Chi Minh City. Uncle Four hitchhiked his way home. He had been away for so long it was the strangest feeling to think he was going home for good.

Later that day, when Aunt Four was at Aunt Fifteen’s house, there was a knock on the front door. It was a family friend with good news. Word had got around that Uncle Four was a free man. Aunt Four was shocked, excited and relieved that her husband was on his way home, but also dreading the moment she would see him. For she still hadn’t told him their son had died two years earlier.

As the news of Uncle Four’s release settled in, the family who were at Aunt Fifteen’s house burst into action, running off to spread the word to other family members and to prepare for Uncle Four’s homecoming. The family friend who had brought the welcome news was sent to find Uncle Four. After he left, Aunt Four, still filled with worry, turned to Aunt Fifteen and said: ‘Sister, what do I say when I see him? How can I tell him that our son is dead?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Aunt Fifteen told her sister. ‘The family will all be here to help you when he arrives.’

And so they waited, and waited, and more family members gathered, and a few hours later Uncle Four walked through the front door. Everyone in the house was overcome with excitement and joy. He had been away from his family for a very long, very hard time.

After the initial celebrations Aunt Four took her husband into the kitchen and they sat down together. She was still building up the courage to tell him about their son, but she also wanted him to tell him the truth as soon as she could.

‘I need to tell you something,’ she began nervously.

Uncle Four took a deep breath and looked at his wife with love and sadness. ‘I know what happened to our son,’ he said before she could find the words. ‘I heard the news while I was in the camp. My heart was broken. My son taken away for no reason. He was just tired and wanted to sleep. I was sad for so long. It took me a while to build strength again.’

Aunt Four started to cry. The grief, and relief, poured out of her. Uncle Four comforted her and continued: ‘I understand why you kept this news from me, I’m not angry you didn’t tell me. But I remained strong because I knew I would get out some day and take care of the rest of my family. We can’t change anything. I have learned to accept that my son is gone. Our family has been through enough pain and suffering. We have to let this go.’

Uncle Four and his wife hugged and held each other for a long time. Even now, my aunt cannot believe how calm Uncle Four was, how noble. ‘Now, let’s eat and drink,’ he said. ‘I’m home.’

I didn’t get the full story about my Uncle Four’s time in the re-education camps from him. Most of what I know was relayed to me by my parents, grandparents and other uncles and aunties. When writing this book, I asked him if he could tell me about his life in the army, his suffering in the camps, and life after his release. He said he wanted to help me but I could hear the pain in his voice. He was very apprehensive. He is still filled with so much anger against his home country. It’s difficult for him to think about his home—a place he loved then lost so long ago, and a place where he endured tremendous pain, torture and unhappiness. He said he would get back to me about his story.

I left it at that and didn’t really expect to hear from Uncle Four about it; I understood his reluctance. Then one day my dad was talking to Uncle Four on the phone and he gave me three words: ‘
Nhuc. Han. Dau Kho.
’ Those words translate to ‘Disgrace. Hatred. Suffering.’ Uncle Four sees his home as a disgrace and he still feels hatred for a place where he went through so much suffering. That was all he was able to give me.

In 1993, under a humanitarian program called the Orderly Departure Program, signed by the United States and Vietnam, Uncle Four, Uncle Eleven and their families were allowed to immigrate to America. Uncle Eleven has returned to Vietnam on a few occasions. Uncle Four, however, after more than twenty years in the United States, has never gone home.

5
ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DOLLAR

‘Life goes on,’ my father always says whenever we speak about these hardships. Throughout the fear, the heartache, the challenges and frustrations, Dad believed that life would move on. ‘We have to live day by day,’ he says. ‘That’s all we can do.’ And that was how they survived after the war.

The black market was Dad’s only source of income. Everything else was tightly controlled by the Communist government; even if you managed to get a regular day job—and these were hard to come by—your life would be controlled by the new regime. Dad didn’t want that. But if you were caught working on the black market, all your goods were confiscated and you had to pay a fee to the officers. The amount would vary, depending on who caught you. Some would ask for a small amount while others would take your entire day’s earnings. So even though it was dangerous to trade on the black market and their income was irregular and stretched, Dad and the rest of the family became used to this life.

After a few months Dad not only had a good reputation and plenty of customers, he’d also made some friends in the same business. They would eat out for breakfast, lunch or dinner, and go out on the weekends to the movies or to each other’s houses and hang out. Or they would just hop on their scooters or bicycles and go for long rides together. Working the streets meant Dad could make up his own hours. He worked when he could and when he needed to. By 1976, the city of Saigon had merged with surrounding Gia Dinh Province and was renamed Ho Chi Minh City.