The Happiest Refugee: A Memoir Read Free

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