The Happiest Refugee: A Memoir (45 page)

‘How’d you know?’ I asked her.

‘I hear things. Just don’t bring him up. The bastard. I just don’t want to hear about him. He’s got a younger woman now, he’s happy.’ Then she started to walk away agitated.

‘Well, not that it matters, but he said to me he still reckons you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.’ Her demeanour changed immediately.

‘Of course. That’s ’cos I am.’ She faked a smile and held it for a second, and then the tears forced their way out. I hugged my dear mother as tight as I could.

It is a sunny day—warm, but not too hot, with just a slight breeze—otherwise the water is a perfect mirror. We are in Bobbin Head National Park, a beautiful nature reserve with a meandering river bordered by cliffs and gum trees, just north of Sydney.

I hand the man behind the counter the booking fee to hire a small boat for the day and he throws me six life jackets. I say to Xavier, ‘It’s our special job to start the engine.’ His little eyes light up; every firstborn likes ‘special jobs’.

He helps me yank on the starter cord of the small engine and it comes to life. The engine’s low hum is the only noise you can hear in the valley, with the exception of the birds chirping away.

As we pull away from the pier, I put my arm around my wife, who is sitting next to me at the back of the boat. She is cuddling baby Leon, who is flapping his arms wildly, making a
hee… hee… hee… hee
 . . . noise while wearing that delirious grin. Sitting opposite us are Xavier and Luc. They look incredibly handsome in their tiny fluorescent life jackets, like miniature servicemen about to embark on some important mission. In between them is my mum, nursing our picnic basket. Even now, when she gets on a boat she still clings onto the food, but this time she is laughing and joking, making funny faces at the boys.

I look across the water and am mesmerised by the beauty of this magnificent setting. My parents set off on a boat trip many years ago to provide their children and grandchildren a better life. And here we are, thanks to them, enjoying this perfect day.

In that moment I know I am happy. I look up to the blue sky and give thanks.

• In memory of my friend Dave Grant •

In March 2009 my mentor Dave Grant was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. In January 2010 he passed away at the age of 50. A portion of all profits from the sale of this book will be donated to the Australian Cancer Reasearch Foundation.

When my father was ill I stumbled upon a poem by Rudyard Kipling called
If
. I was ready to dedicate it to my father if he were to ‘go somewhere for a long time’. I dedicate it here to Dave. My friend, you are missed.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop to build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son.

Rudyard Kipling

It’s funny how I grew up thinking my own personal story was just ‘normal’, because it’s ‘normal’ to me. Now I realise that maybe it’s a little bit different. The experience of sharing my story has been an incredible journey, and it has given me such joy to receive letters and emails from people who have enjoyed the book. Here are a couple I’d like to share:

‘I found your book on a dusty shelf in a hostel in Copacabana, Bolivia. I am so grateful to the person who left it behind as it is such a great book, full of humour and sadness.’ Jerry H

When I showed this message to Suzie, she laughed and said, ‘Planes have strict luggage weight restrictions these days, honey.’

Hahahaha.
So my book was too
heavy for a backpacker to take on the plane!

‘Hi Anh, I bought the book for my husband, but I read it first and I just couldn’t put it down, even walking to and from the train station in the city I would be reading. I was lucky to not be hit by a car.’ Dorita C

Thanks Dorita, I’m glad you’re still alive.

And here are a couple that warm my heart:

‘Hi Anh, I’m going through a tough time at the moment… I purchased your book recently and it gave me some inspiration to not give up and made me feel enlightened with your great humour. Thank you for helping me cope through this tough stage in my life.’ Michael I

‘Thank you for sharing your story with us. You made me love my parents even more than I already do.’ Vivienne L

Many thanks to Michael and Vivienne.

Since
The Happiest Refugee
was published in 2010, I’ve received many emails from parents who have asked me to write a children’s version, so Suzie and I decided to write
The Little Refugee
together, retelling the story in a manner appropriate for primary school children. The book is really about hope and the power of never giving up.

During an author signing in Perth I met a bookseller who told me about a woman called Sister Trish Franklin. Sister Trish is a Loreto nun who rides a motorbike and is a mad supporter of the Carlton Football Club. In 1997 this amazing woman started the Loreto Vietnam Australia Program, which helps extremely poor children, orphans and disabled kids in Vietnam.

In an interview with
The Age
newspaper Sister Trish told the story of ten-year-old Khanh, who came to Ho Chi Minh City with his mother when he was three. ‘His mum went off to sell papers and never came back …’ Sister Trish pointed to a photo of a grinning boy in one of her brochures. ‘This little boy came to our school for the blind six months ago. He’s 11, and he has no eyeballs. But, do you know, he’s the best singer in the school.’

I said to Suzie, ‘Let’s give some of our profits from the children’s book to Sister Trish’s charity, like maybe ten or twenty per cent.’

Suzie gave me a hug and said, ‘Let’s give the charity ALL the profits from the book.’

I said to her, ‘That’s actually what I was
really
thinking!’

I thought it wasn’t possible to love my wife any more, but in that moment I was reminded that I was one lucky guy who had truly married his soulmate.

I hope
The Little Refugee
brings joy to kids and parents who read it, and also some hope and comfort to disabled, poor and orphaned kids in Vietnam.  

The week the book came out I sent a copy to my brother, Khoa. A few days later I got a call from him. He told me he’d enjoyed it, but only one little bit bothered him… 

‘Ahhh, just the bit with the dress…’

Oh no… what’s he going to say?

‘I can’t believe you put the photo in!’

Luckily for me, my little brother has a sense of humour, and as we discussed all the stories in the book and reminisced about our childhood, Khoa reminded me of other family stories that I’d forgotten about, and even told me a few I hadn’t heard.

So Khoa and I have decided to write a book together. It will be a collection of short stories made up of other ‘Do family’ memories not in
The Happiest Refugee
, and also some inspirational stories of extraordinary Australians whom we’ve met throughout our lives.

Khoa told me some things I didn’t even know about our crazy Uncle Nine. Uncle Nine was my Dad’s youngest brother. He came over from America to live near us when I was ten. After the war, Uncle Nine and Uncle Three had escaped from Vietnam on a different boat from ours and had been accepted into America. Uncle Nine was our youngest uncle, and that, combined with his hilarious Vietnamese-Californian accent, endeared him to us enormously.