In 1975, when Saigon fell into the hands of the Communists, Hoang, a fisherman from Vung Tau who also fought against the Viet Cong, was living with his wife, Trang. At that time, they already had their first son, Long. Hoang was twenty-four years old, and his wife was four years younger. Both Buddhists, Hoang and Trang envisioned and hoped for a better future for their family especially when their second son, Quang, was born in 1979. It was then that they decided, along with their brothers, sisters and other village members, to risk their lives and escape from the clutches of the Viet Cong. They managed to reach a boat off the shore while the Communists were hot on their trail. Unfortunately, Hoang’s sister and sister-in-law, and other villagers were captured and held in the Communist work camps. The boat they embarked on had three tiers. Tragedy struck when eight-month-old Quang fell from the second tier into the water and nearly died. Upon reaching Hong Kong, Quang was hospitalized. Sometime later, the whole family was relocated to Savannah, Georgia in the USA. Twenty-four years later, I happened to read Quang’s story in one of the programs offered by PREP to incarcerated men and women (see Magnet June 2024). I was captivated by its depth, honesty and insight, so much so that I contacted Quang and asked him whether I could reproduce excerpts of his 38-page work. He promptly agreed.
I need not comment further. Listen to Quang as he relates his journey of hope.
(All names of people and places are changed. The text has been left as Quang wrote it. Only minimal editing has been done)
My family and I are refugees from Vietnam. We arrived in America (parents, uncles, and older brother) in 1980, residing in Savannah, where my two younger brothers [Dinh and Dung] were born. We lived there for about four years. One of the few memories I have was when I got physically disciplined for accidently spilling a pot of scalding hot noodles on my younger brother’s leg. I first got beaten by my older brother Long then after coming back from the hospital, my mom whipped me with the handle of a metal fly swatter and while the welts and bruises and cuts were still fresh, I had to kneel on the metal grate of the floor vent while holding up phone books for a couple of hours. I was four years old and clearly remember the day because I learned what it was to be a man. As I cried out in pain, and tried to block and move away from the fly swatter, I got whipped harder and told “to shut up, a man don’t cry” I must endure. I also learned my physical well-being didn’t matter. I am a horrible son and brother, and accidents are punishable to the highest degree. From that day on I began to suppress my emotions, built tolerance to pain and started having anger and resentment towards my family.
Br Carmel Duca MC
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