We fled Vietnam when our daughter, Amanda, was only three months old. Life was so chaotic that she was almost switched at birth with another baby girl. The hospitals in Vietnam were understaffed and one of the nurses must have switched their I.D. bracelets after giving them a bath. It wasn’t until the other girl’s parents noticed that Amanda’s fingers were shorter than their daughter’s that we figured out the mistake to the relief of both families.
Over one million refugees, like us, fled from Vietnam by boat and encountered all manner of problems: stormy weather, getting lost at sea, running out of fuel, ships sinking from too many passengers, marauding pirates, and dehydration. We know of many friends whose family members drowned while trying to escape across the sea. We were among the “lucky ones” whose entire family survived without any casualties.
Once we arrived in Malaysia, the authorities robbed us of any jewelry and gold that the pirates hadn’t taken. Then, they left us without shelter on Kuantan beach because the refugee camp was already overcrowded.[1] We had braved the Communists, marauding pirates, and massive waves which threatened to capsize our boat only to find out that they had no room for us. So, we all slept on the beach for a couple of months while we waited for more space to open up. Our group survived mainly off the meager rations of rice which we had brought from Vietnam. Then occasionally, sailors transporting goods to-and-from the island would notice our miserable cluster of refugees and throw us packets of noodles from their boat.
Over time, the authorities realized that no one was leaving the camp, so they started sending boats back out to sea. We watched with horror as two of those boats capsized and their passengers all drowned. So, late that night, I smashed a hole into our boat and flooded it with water, so we couldn’t be sent back to sea. Even then, thousands of refugees kept arriving until the beach was full as well. So, the authorities sent our group into the desert wilderness where we had to live for a few more weeks. Our daughter, Amanda, was so tiny that she kept sliding into the sand until we could scrounge up a piece of driftwood for her to sleep on.
Finally, we were permitted to enter the camp itself—a place called Cherating. More than 8,000 refugees crowded into shanty towns several stories high, constructed from salvaged timbers, corrugated metal, and walls made of plastic sheets. We also tied together local resources like bamboo, branches, and woven straw. Our living conditions remained filthy as constant rainstorms sent floods of contaminated water sweeping through the camp such that many of us contracted diseases like hepatitis or malaria. We lived on weekly rations of canned meat, dry instant noodles, and any fish the men could catch from the sea, but most days we went without. Supplies would be shipped in from the mainland, but we had no access to fresh meat or vegetables.
Cherating was also no place to care for a newborn baby. Our daughter was always sickly once Tên’s milk dried up due to lack of nourishment. Then, another time, Amanda nearly died. Her infant body fell limp and her heart stopped beating. We couldn’t find a doctor, but one man who claimed to be an acupuncturist took a long needle and jabbed it into my daughter’s head. She screamed, of course, but at least she was still alive.
Amanda would be the first patient in the Cherating hospital established by an American doctor named David. He was a white man, but he cared for the refugees like we were his own people. In addition to being a medical doctor, David covertly assisted the U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Division (CID) to gather intelligence about Communist spies infiltrating America as refugees. Due to his clearance, he found out that I had served with CID while in the Navy and appointed me Chief Security Officer in Cherating. Our team then helped restore order to the camp which had been overwhelmed by conflict and chaos from the beginning. I also helped Dr. David identify three Communist spies who were pretending to be refugees. One of them, a high-ranking officer, was sent back to Malaysia after trying to enter the United States.
Our family lived in Cherating for about one year until our sponsorship to America. Getting sponsored felt like winning the lottery, although we may have received some priority for my service in the Navy. Each refugee family needed a sponsor, so we Trans ended up all over the country (and even the world). We were willing to go to the first country which made room for us, but we secretly hoped for the United States since some of our relatives had already gone ahead.
Unfortunately, Tên’s mother suffered a stroke right before we were about to leave. So, the authorities decided our entire family unit would have to remain in the camp until she was well enough to travel. This news was too much for my wife who fell to her knees before the officials in charge and begged them to let us leave. She knew she was pleading for our daughter’s life.
Thankfully, my wife convinced the authorities to let her take her father and Amanda in a family unit with Tên’s oldest sister. They left for San Francisco on May 11, 1980. I would follow in June with Tên’s mother along with my brother’s family unit. I remain forever grateful for the freedom and prosperity we now experience in America every time I think back to those months we spent as refugees.
[1] A resort has since been built near the location of our former refugee camp, making it now an exotic beachfront destination.
