Following is an excerpt of my remarks as president of the Asian Pacific American Bar Association of Pennsylvania (APABA-PA), delivered at a Lunar New Year Banquet last night, telling part of my immigrant story:
Many of you may know that citizenship and immigration law is my area of practice. I myself am an immigrant to the United States. In fact, I have embarked on two major migrations in my life, one of which happened when I was too young to remember.
This image (nla.news-page12395647) shows the front page of the Canberra Times on March 1, 1980. That’s me crouched on the ground, next to our meager luggage. I would turn 4 a few days later. My parents and I had just arrived at this airport in Australia, at the end of a 10-month journey that started at a small seaport village near Soc Trang in South Vietnam.
But really, that journey started before I was born. My parents married shortly before the fall of Saigon, and I was born a year later. Dad worked as a doctor at the Chinese hospital in Saigon, and mom worked there too as an administrator, although she had a law degree. After the war, the American War as it is known in Vietnam, the new Communist government embarked on a campaign to purge Vietnam of Chinese influence, including encouraging citizens of Chinese descent to return to China, and limiting the professions which they could work. As a South Vietnamese and an ethnic Chinese doctor, my dad faced the prospect of being relocated by the new government to a “New Economic Zone,” a euphemism for desolate, depopulated rural areas where no one wanted to live. Even in Saigon, renamed Ho Chi Minh City, the economy was in a shambles and food was hard to come by. Mom’s milk dried out and I was a fussy baby who refused formula and cried constantly. My first nickname, “wau wau,” is the sound a whining puppy makes in Vietnamese. I blame my final adult height (I’m even shorter than my mom) on being born in a time of post-war famine.
Mom and dad faced a decision. Whether to remain in Vietnam where they faced discrimination and uncertainty about their status from the new government, or whether to take their chances and seek a better life elsewhere. My grandfather, a colonel in the South Vietnamese Army, had already been forced into a re-education camp (another euphemism).
With a young child in tow, mom and dad decided to leave. They did not have a final destination in mind when they set out, or an offer of refuge already extended. Maybe they could make it to France or somewhere else in Europe. Maybe America. Maybe Australia. But first, they had to get out of Vietnam. They paid for passage on a boat to leave the country. With the funds from Chinese families desperate to leave, a boat was built for 200. When it left shore, it carried about 500, and sat too low in the water. It lurched on the ocean like a turtle scrabbling on land. When my parents realized how overcrowded the conditions on the boat would be, they faced another decision. Should we take our chances on this clearly unseaworthy vessel, or abort our journey? They had already liquidated their assets to pay for passage, and as soon as they vacated their home it would have been confiscated by the government, as they had seen happen to neighbors who had left before them. They had no home to go back to, and no money to pay for a second try later. We boarded that boat.
Another young couple came on board with a days-old baby. That baby did not survive the journey.
Out in the open sea, soon food and drinking water ran low. Dad would take turns bailing out seawater in return for a small cupful of water which he would give to me. People were packed tightly in the hold and the stench soon became unbearable, but you had to find a way to bear it. At night, the boat had no lights so you could not even see the person sitting beside you, and could not tell what was going on or if you were in danger from a fellow passenger. There was no room to lie down.
Our boat was attacked by pirates three times. We counted ourselves lucky that the pirates only took money and valuables and no one was raped or killed. The third time, our boat was approaching land when the pirates began to tow us out to open sea. We had no valuables left to be stolen. What would happen to us when the pirates found nothing of value to take? Why were they towing us out to sea? Judging it more dangerous to let the pirates do what they wanted than to resist, the men on our boat cut the tow rope and the pirates chose not pursue us.
When we finally approached a shoreline again, and the end of our dangerous sea journey was in sight, the coast guard of Malaysia towed our little boat back out to sea, and they did not hesitate to beat anyone who resisted. We would not be permitted to land on their shores, we understood, and instead they pointed to a light in the distance, and told us to head there. What choice did we have? We steered for the light, which turned out to be a lighthouse, and the shores of Indonesia. We had spent 9 days at sea. We were some of the lucky ones. We made it to shore.
We ended up in a refugee camp in Galang, Indonesia. I have photos from this time. The adults are hollow-cheeked and thin. The children, however, myself included, have full cheeks. They must have made it a priority to feed the children, even if it meant going hungry themselves. My parents almost lost me during this time. I had tagged along with my grandfather to the market one day, while he was carrying my younger cousin. He failed to notice that I had come along, and I got separated from him in the crowd. Fortunately, a Vietnamese woman found me and I was able to tell her, even at age 3, our barracks number so she could return me to my family. My mother had had the foresight to have me memorize that information. My family had been frantic when they realized I was missing. When I saw my parents, after holding it together up until then, I burst out crying, and indignantly reported that “Grandpa left me behind in the marketplace!” (“Ong Ngoai bo con!”)
My parents and I stayed in that refugee camp for about nine months. During that time, other members of our family were accepted for resettlement to the United States. We hoped to join them, so that the family could stay together. Then, my parents were offered the opportunity to resettle in Australia, sponsored by a Christian group. They faced a choice. Remain in the refugee camp, waiting to see if they would be allowed to resettle in America, or leave now for a new life without family support, in Australia. They decided to take the certain offer in hand, rather than wait for who knew how long to be accepted into the U.S.
So that’s how we ended up in that airport in Canberra, one of the first families from Vietnam to come to Australia’s capital city in a new refugee resettlement program.
My dad is quoted in that Canberra Times article. Asked about our escape from Vietnam, he said “there had been no problems during the journey.” And that was my dad for you.
We resettled in Australia, with the support of our sponsors. They had secured housing for us, and stocked the refrigerator and freezer with food — including MEAT! My parents were astonished at the bounty now available to them. Back in Saigon, meat had been mostly beyond their means after the war.
One of my mother’s earliest memories of settling in Australia is taking me with her to the supermarket, by bus. Although she had learned English in Vietnam she was by no means fluent at that time. On the way home, in the dark, we missed our stop. Do you know how difficult it is to figure out public transportation when everything is new to you? My mother did not know what to do. At the end of the route, the driver asked us what our stop had been, and she was able to tell him. He turned the bus around and drove us directly to our stop, and we made it home safe that night.
When my brother was born in Australia, my parents gave him a name that means “Everlasting Peace,” their hope for the future as they built their lives anew in a new land.
Ours is just one immigrant story, one refugee story, among many. I am struck, though, thinking back on our journey, by the kindnesses shown to us by strangers on the way.
As my son once said when we were talking about how he came to be, I am here today because of the Vietnam War and the aftermath of that war. But I am also here today because a stranger found me in a marketplace in Indonesia, and made sure I got back to my family. I am here today because a Christian group in Canberra decided to sponsor a young family, strangers to them, fleeing persecution in Vietnam. I am here today because my parents took a chance for a better life, and took a leap into the unknown. I am also here today, as president of APABA-PA, because I wanted to serve in an organization that cares about our community and helps to safeguard our rights. I know, though, that I would not have had the opportunity to do this if strangers had not extended us kindnesses along the way.
Thank you for allowing me to share part of my history with you tonight.
May this year bring health and prosperity to you and your families, and may we all welcome the stranger who was once us.