Small Bamboo (14 page)

Saying goodbye was difficult for all of them. They were each so close to building a new life; it was overwhelming and exciting but frightening too. As they hugged for the last time, Uncle Five, with a huge smile, said, ‘We will see you in Australia.’

Mum and Dad had to wait about a week before they could leave. Three days before their scheduled flight, they checked the noticeboard at the immigration offices to find out their destination. They scanned the lists of names. They were hoping for Melbourne, to be with Uncle Five and his family, but then Mum pointed at one spot on the board:

PERTH
TAI ANH VO
LIEN KIM CHAU

Perth? They had no idea where Perth was. They had never even heard of it. They wondered what it would be like.

‘How do you feel about this?’ Dad asked my mother.

Despite knowing nothing about their new home, Mum knew that it would be a much nicer place than the homeland they had left behind. ‘I’m feeling very, very happy,’ Mum said with a big smile.

Their last days on the island were spent cleaning the house and gathering their scant belongings together, packing a small suitcase with decent clothes donated by the Red Cross. They didn’t have much, but it was enough.

Mum and Dad both worried about leaving Aunt Twelve on her own, but she assured them that she would be fine; under the watch of the United Nations, the camp and island were safe places and the family had settled in well and made friends among the other refugees. ‘You two take care over there,’ she said to them as they left the house.

Dad hugged his sister. ‘We hope you don’t have to wait too long. Please give my love to Brother Twelve. I miss him so much. I hope he is healthy and happy.’

About midnight on 6 July 1978, my parents boarded a boat for Mersing, where they were bussed to Kuala Lumpur. Their group was housed in an old Red Cross building in the city, and they spent the first day undergoing medical checks at the local hospital. For the few days they were in KL they weren’t allowed outside the building. Every time the food suppliers made a delivery, Dad would strike up a conversation with them. He liked their company and asked them for a favour. He wanted to leave the Red Cross building and explore the town. They agreed and managed to smuggle him out of the building by pretending he was one of them. They took him to the supermarkets and seafood and vegetable markets. They even took him out for meals.

Some of the other refugees tried to sneak out but they were always caught. Somehow Dad got away with it.

The World Cup was being held in Argentina. Some nights Dad managed to sneak out to the supermarket to watch matches on replay, even the final between Argentina and the Netherlands. He remembers those times fondly, as if it were yesterday—the freedom of wandering around, sitting in a supermarket to watch the World Cup . . . He was ecstatic, and felt so free. He even went shopping. With some money he had left over he went down to a ladies clothing store in the city one day and bought Mum a beautiful white cardigan. She loved it.

In the days leading up to their departure, the refugees were asked to watch a video about Perth. My parents’ first impressions were of suburban brick homes with landscaped gardens on big blocks of land; a lot of bush; paved and clean roads; tall buildings; and native animals such as kangaroos and koalas. Immigration officials described what their life would be like in Australia, a very different life to the one they had lived in Vietnam. It would be tough to adjust to a Western lifestyle and they were advised to take it day by day.

Mum and Dad were excited by the prospect of their new life in Perth. Before the war, Uncle Three had travelled all over Europe and other parts of the world, bringing home different foods and souvenirs and teaching them a lot about Western culture. And they had been able to communicate with many US soldiers in Vietnam. Mum and Dad stared at the television screen watching this short film about Australia. They were looking at their new home. It was so foreign to them. Vietnam seemed like an entire lifetime ago.

9
JUST A PLANE RIDE AWAY

At 10 a.m. on 13 July 1978, a bus took my parents and eighty-three other refugees to Kuala Lumpur airport. Each refugee was given a ‘Letter of Authority for Travel to Australia’—their passport out of Malaysia, they were told. My parents still have the letter, and on it is this note:

Period of stay in Australia which may be authorised by issue of entry permit on arrival.
INDEFINITE

At the time Mum and Dad didn’t understand its importance, but they certainly do now.

At the airport the eighty-five refugees lined up at immigration, where they were called one by one. Finally it was my parents’ turn. As it was the first time Mum and Dad had been through immigration or customs they weren’t familiar with the process, but they made sure they followed the officials’ exact orders. With butterflies in their stomachs they watched the immigration officer read through their letters, slam down his stamp and hand them back again.

Out on the tarmac my parents looked at their aeroplane in awe, almost in shock—this was their passage to freedom. They took their seats at the rear of the commercial flight with their fellow refugees. It was only the second time Mum had been on a plane; the first was when she and her family escaped Cambodia in 1970. Dad, on the other hand, was used to flying—during his training in the South Vietnamese Air Force he’d been on a plane almost every day. But as the plane started to taxi down the runway, many of the refugees became anxious. Most of them hadn’t flown before and were worried about being air sick; in fact, on the bus ride to the airport Dad had to ask the driver to pull over a few times as some of the refugees were vomiting with nervousness.

Mum and Dad, though, weren’t anxious or scared; they were so happy they couldn’t stop smiling at each other, and by the time the plane lifted into the air they had started laughing with joy. They were now on their way to a new life, a better life.

While some of the other refugees spent most of the flight running to the toilet or vomiting from airsickness, Mum and Dad were celebrating. They couldn’t believe the generosity of the Australian government—the food served on the plane was delicious. Then Dad noticed some alcohol on the food trolley. He put up his hand to attract the steward’s attention.

‘Miss, do you have any whisky?’ Dad asked with a modest smile.

The steward was taken aback at first. Here was a refugee who spoke perfect English and he had the cheek to ask for a whisky! Then she laughed and the immigration officials travelling with the group had a good chuckle too.

‘Well, of course, sir. How many would you like?’

‘Two, please,’ Dad replied. ‘One for my wife and one for me.’

The steward gave my parents a big smile, as if to congratulate them on their journey. ‘If you would like more, please let me know. Enjoy!’

When Dad told me this story, I was quite shocked because I’d hardly ever seen my mum drink alcohol. ‘Really?’ I asked Dad, to which he replied, ‘Of course, Mum likes a good whisky, you know!’

After a five-hour flight, the plane touched down in Perth at 8 p.m. The immigration officials travelling with the group told them to wait while the commercial customers disembarked. The suspense was almost too much for my parents, who wanted to race out of the plane and explore their new home.

Finally it was their turn to walk along the air bridge into Perth International Airport, with their visas ready. The process was the same as when they left Malaysia—one by one they were called by the immigration officer, who would check and stamp their documents.

As they walked into the arrivals lounge, my parents looked around. It was so nice, so clean and modern. Outside the terminal, as they were led to buses, they were hit by the cold of a Perth winter night; coming from Ho Chi Minh City, they weren’t used to these conditions. Dad was freezing in a thin collared shirt but luckily Mum was wearing her new white cardigan. On board the bus they were told they were being taken to Graylands Migrant Hostel in Perth’s western suburbs, which housed all the Vietnamese refugees fleeing the war at that time. After World War II several migrant accommodation centres were established in Western Australia and one of them was Graylands, a large hostel which looked a little like a small community filled with units, a communal kitchen and living area. While the others in WA closed down, Graylands remained open for civilians displaced after the Vietnam War.

At 11 p.m. they arrived at the hostel and were taken straight to the main hall and introduced to the manager, Hammer, a big, burly man with a broad Aussie accent that sometimes made it difficult to understand what he was saying. He gave them a tour of the hostel, but there wasn’t much to see; the main area was the dining room. He told them about life at the hostel, that meals were served there every day, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He also said they would need to establish a routine there, and that they were free to explore the city during the day. There was no curfew as such, but if they weren’t at the hostel at a particular time, they wouldn’t get their meals. It would be tough to find their way around, he said, but they’d get the hang of freedom eventually. Hammer also explained that he and his staff would help them adjust to the Australian way of life.

It was a lot to take in, and the refugees were by now exhausted, but they were all struck by one word that meant so much to them. FREEDOM.

After a quick roll call, the refugees were allocated their living quarters, each with two bedrooms and one bathroom, which were shared among couples and families. Hammer chatted away as he guided Mum and Dad to their unit.

‘You guys must be tired,’ he said. ‘Breakfast is at seven in the morning. Just come down to the dining room. There’s plenty of space for everyone.’

Dad nodded.

‘Then you can go back to your rooms and relax until lunch. Dinner is at 5 p.m. There’ll be plenty of food. Don’t worry, you’ll be well fed.’

Dad nodded again and smiled. Hammer must have wondered why this couple weren’t saying anything; some of the refugees didn’t speak English but most knew a few words.

‘Anyway, guys, you’re here.’ And with that he opened the door for them and handed them the key. ‘This is your home until you set yourselves up. Relax. Have a good rest. You’re finally safe.’ Hammer patted my parents on their shoulders.

Dad was shaking, and he tried to stretch out his arm to shake Hammer’s hand. ‘Th . . . th . . . th . . . thank . . . you,’ Dad stammered. He was so cold he couldn’t even speak! That’s why he hadn’t said anything.

Hammer laughed when he realised the problem. ‘Oh, mate, you’re bloody freezing.’ He put his arm around Dad’s shoulders. ‘No need to thank me. Get yourselves inside and get warm. I’ll see you in the morning.’

By this time it was 1 a.m. As they looked around their unit, Mum and Dad were struck by how luxurious, clean and new everything looked—so lovely, so warm and welcoming; there was even a heater and an air conditioner. Then they looked at the bed in amazement. They had never slept on a bed in Vietnam. Instead each night they had to set up a thin mattress on the floor in the middle of the lounge room, kitchen or dining room—in fact, any area that was big enough to fit everyone on the floor. Shattered by their journey and overwhelmed by the prospect of their new life, they took a moment to take it all in. They hadn’t really thought about the challenges they were about to face. Even understanding Hammer was a tough task. Nothing was familiar; to them, Australia was an entirely new world. They showered then crawled into their new bed, where they lay staring at the ceiling. It was all so surreal.