CHAPTER 1
Black Water
What is your favorite thing to play with? Take a look at your life right now. What does your world look like? Do you live in a home with painted walls, running water, electric lights, and convenient appliances?
We barely had electricity in our village. So naturally, there were no electronic toys like we have today! We didn't have carpet or tiled floors in our home. We didn't have running water. For a period, I didn't even have a dad.
I was born in a thatched hut in a war-torn country. The war had just ended, and everyone on each side had lost. The country was bleeding. People were hungry, desperate, lost, angry, vengeful, and confused. Death was a common visitor in our small village — and in any village, for that matter. People were fleeing the country in droves even though they had little chance of surviving the flight.
My family was caught in the middle of this. This is our story.
* * *
My name is Cam Hu'ò'ng, which means "pink jade" in Vietnamese. I was born in 1978 — a few years after the Vietnam War officially ended. Our home was a small, thatched hut with dirt floors, and it was located in a village in the province of Cà Mau. Cà Mau means "black water" in the Khmer language. The walls and roofs of the humble homes were made of thatch, a weaving of straw, palm leaves, reeds, or similar material. This seaside village was surrounded by water that was heavily mixed with dark-colored silt, which made the water dark. Our home was in the southernmost part of the village, which itself was located on the very southern tip of Vietnam, where the South China Sea meets the Gulf of Thailand.
When I was born, I was loved and surrounded by family. At two years old, I was wandering in and out of homes around the village. My parents lived with my grandma and grandpa Huynh, my dad's parents. My two uncles and four aunties also lived with us in our little thatched hut. Our cousins and other relatives lived in similar huts nearby.
My parents taught me to address everyone I met as an aunt, uncle, or cousin, whether they were really related to me or not. In the small village, everyone knew my parents, and every adult in the village helped look after me and the other children. The adults kept an eye on the kids and reminded them to hurry home when it was mealtime.
My favorite person of all, however, was my dad. He was strong and hardworking, as well as quiet and often contemplative. Dad was slim, of medium height, and very gentle. At nineteen, he was already married to my mom. Their parents had arranged their marriage. I was born when he was only twenty. To me he was always loving, kind, and sincere.
Like all the poor villagers in the area, my family made a living by fishing. My dad went out to sea for several days at a time. Whenever he came home in his small boat, I looked forward to holding him tight and talking to him, telling him about everything that had happened at home and in the village while he was away. I followed him like a shadow and talked nonstop as he worked and listened. I was only two years old at the time. We were inseparable.
There was always something happening in the village. The dirt roads — everything was dirt, just dried-up dirt — were narrow. Just the narrow roads separated the homes. From the homes, the smell of prawns and dried fish filled the air. The air itself was humid and thick, like a hot kitchen where housewives cooked soup. The sounds of babbling housewives and playing children mixed with the scented air. Because the walls were just thatch, the sounds, scents, and energy traveled as freely from home to home as the pets and children did. Thus, every home was a part of the homes around it.
Every home had the same basic necessities. Each had a few large terra-cotta pots of water, which the women filled at the local water source using buckets. The women balanced these buckets on long bamboo sticks on their shoulders. As the woman carried their water and did their cooking, cleaning, and household chores, they seemed to be copying the village culture they had observed others engaging in. They even dressed the same. All the women in the village wore pointy straw hats when in the sun and simple outfits called aó bà ba made from lightweight fabric, usually featuring dark colors and black pants. The men wore shorts, and the children wore similar outfits. All day long, the village was filled with activity.
In contrast to the vibrant day, the night brought thick darkness. As darkness fell, the families gathered to mend fishing nets, talk, and reminisce about the events of the day. For many families, lamps and candles provided the only light at night. These lights, however, also presented a danger in the thatch houses: fires could easily occur in any home.
When I was two weeks old, our family narrowly escaped from such a fire. It happened one night when my mom and auntie had been lying on a bed and talking late into the night with the lamp on. When she married, my mom had gone to live with the family of her husband, as was the custom. My aunties, my dad's sisters, and my grandma all helped raise me. In Vietnamese culture, we don't refer to our aunts and uncles by their given names. We call them Auntie Eight or Uncle Two, corresponding to the order of birth in their family. So there I was with my mom, Auntie Eight, and Auntie Seven in a bed together in the home of my grandma and grandpa Huynh. I was a fussy newborn that night, so they had stayed up later than normal to settle me. Exhausted from a long night, the women had then fallen asleep and neglected to turn the lamp off. The wind swept through the thatch house and tipped the oil lamp over, which started burning the mosquito net that protected us from mosquitoes as we slept.
For some reason, my grandma was awake in the middle of the night, and when she came in and saw the flames, she screamed. She pulled on the mosquito net to disconnect it from the walls. The burning fabric fell on us and burned us — especially my chest, my tummy, and my mom's leg. The scars from that incident are still on our bodies to this day. But Grandma Huynh saved our lives that night.
Life was very fragile in Vietnam at the time. War between the North and the South had led to the death and displacement of many families. Families moved from place to place to find safety and to start a new life, sometimes several times over. My grandpa Huynh — my dad's dad — and his family had just moved to the fishing village from a farming village only a few years earlier. My grandpa Mai — my mom's dad — and his family had moved to the village only a few years before my grandpa Huynh's family.
The war, the moving, the displacement, and the destruction were why people in the village, and in many parts of Vietnam, were poor and didn't get a good education during those years of conflict. They were just trying to survive, and not all were successful. As a result of this conflict, up to three million Vietnamese people died.
When the war ended in April 1975, South Vietnam, where our family lived, had fallen to North Vietnam. We had lost the war. My parents describe the time as one of panic and chaos. The money changed several times, with the old currency becoming worthless. The only reliable currency was gold. New harsh, strict policies were introduced to these simple village people. Suddenly, you couldn't trust anyone. Even children were taught to report their parents for saying things against the government. Political propaganda from the communist government of the newly "united" Vietnam began to seep into the South. North Vietnamese soldiers, government officers, and citizens began to move into the South.
To exact revenge, to remove threats and resistance, and to "reeducate" the supporters of the South Vietnamese cause, the new government began a reeducation program. Between 1 million and 2.5 million South Vietnamese were captured and forcibly moved to work camps, where about 165,000 died in the harsh conditions. The "new economic zones" program followed the reeducation program.
Under the banner of this new program, the Vietnamese government forcibly relocated families in South Vietnam to new, uninhabited areas to clear the way for the more than one million North Vietnamese who moved into the south and central regions. Our family almost got caught up in this wave of relocations.
My parents tell me the story of my grandpa Huynh.
One day after the fall of South Vietnam and a few years before I was born, a government truck came to the village. The government officer in the truck had a list of names of local villagers who would have the honor of helping rebuild a new Vietnam. This was presented as a privilege to help the country make progress. The villagers gathered around the truck to listen to the names on the list. In retrospect, we think this was a list of people who had supported the Americans and the South Vietnamese government during the war. My grandpa Huynh had received a gun from either the Americans or the South Vietnamese government.
When they called Grandpa Huynh's name, Huynh Van Ba (Huynh Brother Three), he couldn't respond for some reason. When telling us the story later, Grandpa Huynh said he didn't really know the reason he couldn't respond — it just didn't feel right. The officer pointed to him and asked him what his name was. Grandpa Huynh lied. He said his name was Huynh Van Hai (Huynh Brother Two). Grandpa Huynh was not a good liar and usually did not respond very quickly, but this time he responded very quickly with a lie. That lie perhaps saved his life. When the officer had finished calling names, and as the truck loaded with village men was about to leave, another villager protested that he had been overlooked. He asked if he could come. They let him hop on. It is our belief that everyone taken on the truck that day died or was killed because no one ever heard of them again after that day.
Even in the midst of war and the after-war chaos, life went on. Though my parents' marriage was prearranged by their parents, love was with them from the beginning. Proper girls and boys in a village did not date — they did not even talk to each other. They sort of just looked at each other every once in a while.
My mom thought my dad was handsome. My dad had heard that my mom was respectful and hardworking. In village life, parents and boys valued these traits more than good looks. Looks were just extra. Mom had two suitors by the time she was seventeen. Her parents turned down these suitors. My dad was next. His parents arranged, through a village matchmaker, a meeting with my mom's parents to discuss possible betrothal. In Vietnamese culture, this meeting is called di hoi cu'ó'i ("proposal ceremony"). During this formal meeting, the parents of the boy bring tea and a special cake to the parents of the girl. After my dad's parents spoke to my mom's parents, my mom's parents brought my mom out and consulted with her. Mom didn't object, which meant yes. A formal engagement ceremony was arranged.
After the formal engagement ceremony and prior to the actual wedding, my dad wanted to learn more about whom he would be marrying. One night he snuck over to my grandpa Mai's home and spoke a few words with my mom through a hole in the wall. Being young and shy, Grandpa Mai came out to check on the house. When he heard someone talking, he asked Mom whom she was talking to. Dad ran home.
My parents were married at the end of 1977.
A year later, I was born.
CHAPTER 2
Where's Dad?
One evening when I was two years old and while my dad was away fishing, Mom packed up a few of our things and left the village without warning with my brother Khen (pronounced Ken), me, and Auntie Seven and Uncle Six (my dad's younger brother and sister). We traveled to a nearby coastal village called Bac Liêu — about a half day's journey away. A day earlier, Mom had hugged family members and sobbed uncontrollably. The air was heavy with worry and secrecy. I didn't understand what was going on, but I felt scared. In my fear, I asked many questions — especially regarding the whereabouts of my dad. In a low tone, my mom answered my questions as simply as she could. We waited in Bac Liêu at a friend's house for five days.
Five days later, someone came to Mom and told her something troubling. Mom cried. We traveled home to our own village. Throughout the weeks that followed, whenever I asked anyone in our village about my father — "Do you know where my dad is, Auntie?" or "Uncle, do you know why my dad has been gone for so long?" — instead of receiving an answer, I would see sorry tears well up in people's eyes, and they would just hug and kiss me. I started to feel angry and frustrated.
Days and weeks passed. My mom was restless. I knew she was trying to stay strong for us, but I could tell she was terribly worried. After returning to Cà Mau, soldiers took her to their office a few times for questioning.
On some cold, windy days, she would wear my dad's shirt and stand by the shore, staring out at the sea. Dad's shirt was a long-sleeved, cotton, button-down shirt with a collar. It was the type the men usually wore over the top of their clothes to keep warm. Because of the tropical climate in Vietnam, men usually wore tank tops if anything, and if they got cold, they wore long-sleeved shirts like Dad's shirt. One day when my mom wore it, I pulled at the shirt, shouted angrily at my mom, and made her take it off. "Give me back my dad's shirt!" I shouted as if it was her fault that Dad was gone. That made Mom cry. I cried too.
I felt confused and helpless. What was happening? Where was my dad? Nothing was the same anymore. I would not understand the full story until many years later. No one spoke about it. The family kept everything secret.
I did not know at that time that my family had planned a secret escape from Vietnam, which had failed appallingly. Grandpa Huynh had sacrificed our fishing boat so that five of us (my dad, my uncle five, my mom, my brother, and I) could escape from Vietnam and from the new communist regime. This would allow for part of the family to go, and when they got to safety, they could help the rest of the family escape.
Our family needed help to survive and improve their situation. Life was difficult in Vietnam, and the family felt they didn't have a future if they stayed. It just wasn't safe anymore. Children couldn't even go to school and receive an education. Our family had heard rumors about people in wealthy countries, where they used gold to build the roads and where people could earn more money in one day than people in Vietnam could earn in a whole year. So sending some family members to a wealthy country seemed like it could help improve the whole family's welfare greatly.
In Vietnam, your family's welfare was the paramount concern in your life. People thought as a family, not as individuals. When they earned money, they earned money not for themselves but for the welfare of the family. They belonged to a group. Each member of the family had a role to play in improving the situation of the whole family. Everyone's actions and how each person performed his or her role would affect the rest of the family.
My mom, Mai Thi Nua, described, in her own words, her role in the family's plan to escape:
My husband told me that the family had arranged for him, his brother, me, and our children to leave Vietnam on the family fishing boat. At the time, I didn't know any of the details of the plan. I understood only my part of the plan. The family was selling the family fishing boat to a man named Xia, whom I had never met. As part of the deal, my husband and Brother Five would captain the boat because the other passengers didn't have the skills needed. My husband would load the boat as if going out to sea to fish, so that the communist government would not suspect an escape. Then he would bring the boat in during the dark of night to pick up the remaining passengers and fresh supplies.
My part of the plan was to take the children to the markets in Bac Liêu. Brother Six (twelve years old) and Sister Seven (ten years old) would accompany me. It was customary that if you went anywhere in the country in Vietnam, you always had someone go with you for protection. For Brother Six and Sister Seven, it was also a chance for them to go to the markets as well as help me with the children.
In our families, it was everyone's responsibility to help care for and raise the children. We didn't have a stroller like they do in Australia or America, so we had to carry baby Khen everywhere we went. He was only six months old at the time. Huong (Jade) was only two years old and could walk for herself, so she didn't need to be constantly carried. Moreover, Brother Six and Sister Seven also hoped to get on the boat and escape, if there was an opportunity to do so.
