The girls, the girls! Hide the girls!

By: Dai Le

We were old enough to hide ourselves, and we jumped up at once and scrambled to a place where they could not see us.  There were two of them, and through my seven-year-old eyes I could see they were armed with swords that gleamed mercilessly in the sun as they jumped onto our boat.  There was nothing we could do except pray they would spare us from being hurt or raped.  We had heard stories about these pirates  preying on Vietnamese boat people, and we knew about their ruthless pillaging and plundering.  

My mother handed over her watch and her small gold ring, which was all she had on her body.  But thankfully that was all the pirates asked of her – and of her three daughters.

Not everyone was as cooperative, but their resistance didn’t spare them – what they were reluctant to hand over was ripped from their bodies.  Then a bewildering thing happened.  When the pirates got back onto their own vessel, they grabbed a packet of biscuits and threw it onto our boat.  To this point, they had not shown us an ounce of sympathy, and our first reaction to the gift was bemusement – though we did not throw it back!

We had just escaped from a refugee camp in the Philippines.  Fleeing one of those camps was a risky business, and not many made the attempt.  Most boat people had had such a terrible time in escaping from Vietnam that they had no inclination to repeat the experience.  But, after three long years of waiting to see if my dad would turn up, Mum had decided she couldn’t sit around any longer.  

Dad worked for the US Embassy in what capacity we were not told.  When we escaped in April 1975, dad was not around.  We were told to run, and that my father would join us after he made his own getaway and he would meet with us wherever we ended up.  We ended up in Philippines refugee camps. But we had waited and waited and waited, and year after year, he did not come.  I was too young to appreciate just how much this was affecting my mother.  As far as my sisters and I were concerned, we were used to not having him around because of the nature of his work – he was away for months at a time – so when he didn’t show up it seemed like more of the same.  It was not all that much different from how things had been at home.

The way my young mind coped with this new journey was to treat it like a big adventure.  I was entranced by the beautiful green of the water, the serenity of the ocean and the soft, warm light of the kerosene lamp at night.  I had retreated into a little world of my own.

But things happened during the journey that wrenched me out of my private utopia.  Apart from the raid by the pirates, a storm that hit us one day was so severe that it almost tore the vessel apart.  Its aftermath was even more frightening.  Fighting the storm had depleted the fuel supply, and the captain ordered us to throw all our food overboard to reduce the burden on the engine.  Everyone was terrified of being left adrift in the middle of nowhere, so we did what we were told.  But then someone discovered the captain had kept a stash of food for himself, and pandemonium broke out – a massive brawl that I found very scary.

It was a relief when things settled down, but we still could not relax.  Would we make it to our destination before hunger became a real problem?  And, even with the boat now carrying less weight, did we have enough fuel to get there anyway?

Our hearts sank when the engine began to splutter.  Then stop.  Our worst fears had been realised, and we began to drift at the mercy of the ocean currents.  To add to our woes we crashed into a giant reef, damaging the boat almost beyond repair, though mercifully, it was still watertight.  Things were not looking good at all: ‘making it’ now seemed to be out of our reach.

I really can’t recall how long we were stuck there, but eventually, to our great relief, a Hong Kong boat came along and towed us back to its home port.  I remember making a mental note to ask for an apple and a can of Coca Cola when we reached the shore.  It would be all I needed to complete my glorious adventure. 

As we neared Hong Kong, the sun beat down on us cruelly, and I dearly wished the journey would end very quickly.  Then something very strange unfolded before my eyes.  As we approached the harbor, the sea began to turn black.  I snapped out of ‘adventure’ mode once again when I realised that the black I had seen was the color of thousands of little refugee boats, each vying for a vantage position in the overcrowded bay.  I shook my head, not so much in disbelief but because I knew it was going to be a long, long time before I got my apple and Coke. 

Eventually we were ‘processed’.  Herded like sheep, we were each given a number that defined us until we settled in a Hong Kong refugee camp. This turned out to be only the first of three camps where we would be housed.  It was a case of one camp after another until, finally, Australia accepted us.

I have not seen my father since I escaped from Vietnam.  We presume he is dead, never to be reunited with his wife and daughters.  For my sisters and me or for me at least, not having him around had been normal.  Because we saw so little of him, I grew up with the conviction that women are capable of achieving anything without the guidance of a male figure.  My mother raised three girls on her own, across uncharted seas and in foreign lands, and she showed me that, if I worked as hard as she did, nothing would be impossible. 

I attribute my success in hurdling obstacles as much to his absence as to my mother’s example and influence.  I am independent and I am determined. 

Dai Le

This story excerpted from the book "Boat People, personal stories from the Vietnamese exodus 1975 -1996" edited by Carina Hoang