Small Bamboo (4 page)

Uncle Twelve came to Uncle Three’s office that morning, desperate to work out a plan and contact their family members. Then Uncle Three’s phone rang. It was the Air Force Commander. They had a very brief conversation and Uncle Three hung up the phone like a man defeated.

‘What’s happened?’ Uncle Twelve asked his brother.

‘We have to leave now,’ Uncle Three replied.

‘We have to get the others,’ Uncle Twelve said, but the sad expression on his brother’s face told him that time had run out.

Uncle Three explained that they had no choice—the Air Force Commander wanted them to leave immediately. There was no hope of getting their family out of Saigon with them.

It was just before 9 a.m. when Uncle Three started preparing the Hercules for departure. Their destination was Utapao, the US Air Force base south of Bangkok, Thailand. He felt like a robot, going through all the motions of readying the aircraft which he’d done so many times as a pilot, all the while thinking about his family. Uncle Twelve, his co-pilot, worked alongside him while the air force crew loaded the plane. It was filled with mainly military personnel and their families, but the brothers had only each other.

Then Uncle Three, realising that something wasn’t right, did a head count and found that the crew had put 212 people on board. The Hercules was designed to carry a maximum of only 100 troops fully loaded with gear.

Uncle Twelve started to panic, telling Uncle Three they’d have to reduce the number of passengers or the plane would be unable to take off. But Uncle Three just shook his head.

‘I can’t ask people to get off,’ he said. ‘We have to do this. We need to get these people out of here. We must all go together.’

Uncle Twelve told me that his brother appeared so calm at this point, but Uncle Three revealed that while he might have looked calm, all the while he was thinking,
How the hell am I going to do this!

Not only was the Hercules severely overloaded, but the runway was shorter than usual, which made the task even more difficult for Uncle Three. As the Hercules roared towards the end of the runway, for a moment Uncle Three didn’t think they would make it. With so many people on board, the plane simply didn’t have the power to take off. Then, just as they hit the end of the runway, the engine suddenly surged and they were in the air. Many of the passengers screamed with fright but the brothers just let out a huge sigh of relief and collapsed back into their seats.

Uncle Three informed his passengers that they were safely away. There was a short burst of cheering and laughter, but the mood quickly changed as sadness sank in. These people were leaving their homeland, unsure if they could ever return, and even if they did come back one day, what would be left of their country? It would not be the same as the one they loved. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The plane landed safely at Utapao and, after a brief stay, a US Air Force aircraft flew the group to Guam where they would each be processed by immigration and then eventually sent to the United States. They arrived in Guam on the day of the Fall of Saigon—30 April 1975. Constantly on my uncles’ minds were their parents, brothers and sisters who were still in Vietnam; Uncle Twelve’s wife also remained in Saigon. They were very tempted to contact them, to tell them they had escaped. But it was just too risky.

Unlike many of their compatriots who remained in Guam for days or weeks while being processed, Uncle Three and Uncle Twelve left that night for Camp Pendleton in California. Uncle Three was reunited with his wife and five children while Uncle Twelve hoped he would soon be reunited with his wife. Although their stay in Camp Pendleton was uneventful it was saturated with grief and profound sadness over losing the war, and their country. They had lost everything that was theirs, even their identities. Uncle Three’s recollection of life at the camp is heartbreaking. He wrote these words to me in an email:

With our past wiped out as with a stroke of fate, our present full of apprehension and uncertainty and our future bleak, we lived on, happy only with the fact that we were together. We spent five weeks in Pendleton in which our activities were confined in finding friends and family in the camp, looking for news of Vietnam, and also the routine of lining up every day for food served on paper plates and cups. For the first time in my adult life, we were fed not by the seat of our labour but by the benevolent hands of the United States government. In retrospect, I consider myself and my family lucky compared to other people who were lost for days at sea, murdered, raped and attacked by pirates.

3
AFTER THE WAR

For years my father, his parents and his other siblings had no idea where Uncle Three or Uncle Twelve were. It was a similar story for others who had fled the country. They could only hope their loved ones were alive somewhere and they would be reunited in the future.

After the Fall of Saigon, the future was uncertain for the people of South Vietnam. For most, like my father and his family, it was a time of waiting—for the new Communist government to take over. Vietnam was a country in ruins. Both buildings and infrastructure in the North and South had been destroyed. For about a fortnight shops were closed and towns deserted as people stayed close to their homes. While they waited for word from the new government, no one knew what was going on. The new Communist regime moved very slowly, which caused much anxiety. People feared that civilians who were against Communist rule would be treated unjustly. The South Vietnamese in particular feared they would be penalised and prepared themselves. So many questions went through their minds. Can we work? How can we earn a living? Will we eat today? Will we be hurt or even killed by the Communist government?

A bloodbath was also anticipated. The South and its allies thought those who had been captured as well as those still living in South Vietnam would be severely punished. It was an especially anxious time for the wealthy, who were regarded as over-educated and expected not to conform to the Communist regime. They were evicted from their homes so Communist personnel and their families could move in.

The South Vietnamese had lost their rights. If families didn’t move out ‘willingly’, soldiers would take over a room inside the house, controlling the family’s affairs and confiscating all their money. The rich took to hiding large amounts of cash, as did my Uncle Five.

But all the money in the world couldn’t save some families. One way the Communist government weakened the civilians of the South was by changing the country’s currency a year after the Fall of Saigon, making the old money that so many families kept hidden redundant. These people had to start from scratch. The new government gave each family about 200 dong, not even $1, and that was it. A couple of years later, the government changed the currency again. Many people committed suicide because they couldn’t cope. Left with no money, they were unable to feed their families. The North Vietnamese grip over the South became tighter and tighter.

Luckily for my dad’s family, Uncle Three exchanged all his cash for gold before the currency changes. Dad’s family was well known in the Gia Dinh Province but they somehow managed to keep a low profile. They just kept to themselves, inside Uncle Five’s office in Downtown Saigon, until they desperately needed money or food. Uncle Five wasn’t wealthy but he was better off than most people in Vietnam. He owned a business that provided bookkeeping services for import and export companies, but from April 1975 there was no income flowing in. Everything came to a standstill so he had to limit his outgoings. Uncle Five hid thin sheets of gold, which he sold when they ran out of money. He also traded on the black market, buying things such as bicycles and household goods for a reasonable price and selling them at a higher one. It was the only way to make money without having to report to the authorities, who would have taken a share of the earnings anyway. It was a free-for-all on the streets. Uncle Five had a good man for the job—my dad.

At nineteen years of age Dad was becoming quite a pro at buying and selling on the black market. He was well known around town and many people approached him to do deals. Uncle Five would send Dad out to buy and sell goods, but he also relied on Dad’s newfound expertise on everything to do with the black market.

‘We need some more money. Should we sell some gold today?’ Uncle Five would ask Dad.

‘I’m hearing the value of gold will go down later this afternoon,’ Dad would reply. ‘We should probably get in now. I’ll go and sell it.’

It was crucial to secure the best price as, on average, a sheet of gold could last the family about a month if they used the cash frugally. With a household of ten people, the family had to be very careful.

Dad’s black market business was run out of different cafés and kiosks, where he would slyly set up shop during the day. He would change locations every few days, meeting his clients in public places so he wouldn’t create any suspicion about his business. He would also make house calls, but only to people he trusted. He had one rule: he never did business at Uncle Five’s house. It was too dangerous for the family.

Word quickly spread that Dad was a reliable seller and buyer. His specialty was scooters, for which he charged a 10 per cent commission. He would also get requests for televisions, radios and watches. Some days he would earn good money, some days not so much. This was the life he became accustomed to.

That life was briefly interrupted when Dad was forced to join hundreds of thousands of South Vietnamese men—former military soldiers and government workers—in re-education or ‘reform study’ to learn the ways of the new government. As a non-commissioned officer, Dad only had to attend a three-day class and, luckily for him, it was nothing like the atrocities of the re-education camps that millions of others had to endure in the jungles. On 11 June 1975, his first day of ‘reform study’, he rode his scooter to the Faculty of Letters at Saigon University and sat in a classroom with about forty other men.

The first thing the Communist soldiers did was conduct a roll call and, as each name was called out, its owner duly responded. Then it was Dad’s turn.

‘Vo Anh Tai?’ one of the soldiers yelled.

‘Here,’ my father replied.

‘Vo Minh Tan?’

Dad was surprised. That was the name of his brother, my Uncle Thirteen. Dad hadn’t known they were in the same re-education class. But as he looked around for the familiar face, he couldn’t see his brother in the room.

‘Vo Minh Tan?’ the soldier repeated.

Silence.

Dad started to worry now, wondering where his brother was. Why wasn’t he here? Maybe he had forgotten. As the soldiers consulted each other, looking suspiciously around the room, Dad kept quiet. He looked straight ahead, appearing uninterested, hoping the soldiers wouldn’t realise they were brothers. He didn’t want to be questioned over Uncle Thirteen’s whereabouts. Fortunately, Vo is a common surname in Vietnam so the soldiers never thought to ask Dad if he was related to the missing man.

On each of the three days, the re-education class began at eight in the morning and finished at five in the afternoon. The men were drilled about the new government’s ways, their systems and rules, and the consequences of not complying with them. Those who didn’t show up to ‘reform study’ or the re-education camps would be arrested if they were found, then forced into the classes or camps for a longer period of time. It was the same information, the same propaganda, repeated all day, every day.

As soon as my father arrived home after the first day of re-education, he told Aunt Five that Uncle Thirteen was meant to be in class with him but didn’t show up.

‘They kept calling out his name and, luckily, they didn’t know I was his brother so they didn’t ask me where he was. Where is he, Sister?’

‘He’s escaped, Tai,’ Aunt Five replied. ‘He left with one of his friends. I don’t know when he left, but he’s gone.’

Dad wasn’t surprised. Every day he and his family would wonder, ‘How bad is it going to get here in South Vietnam?’ If anyone in Saigon had the opportunity to escape, they grabbed it. But it was all done in secret. After the Fall of Saigon an estimated two million people tried to escape. The only way out was by small, overcrowded boats that were almost unseaworthy. Some people didn’t make it far, unable to cope with the rough conditions at sea, or drowning as their boat sank. Others were attacked by pirates, who would steal all their valuables, rape the women and even murder them. Uncle Thirteen told no one when he left, or how or with whom, and no one heard anything about him.

Then, about a month after he disappeared, Uncle Thirteen showed up at Uncle and Aunt Five’s front door one morning.

‘What happened?’ they asked.

Uncle Thirteen looked shattered.

‘It was a broken deal. We waited so long but no one showed up.’

He explained that his friend had got him a place on a boat. It all happened so suddenly that he didn’t have a chance to tell the family he was leaving. They had travelled to Vung Tau, about an hour and a half south of Saigon. These days it’s a popular beach spot for locals and tourists. There they waited along the beach at the pre-arranged spot, searching for a signal. But the boat never came.