My parents got married in their early 20's and it wasn't mutual love at first sight. My mom was from a poor family of nine children made up of eight girls and only one boy. Vietnam is a dominantly patriarchal society, which meant that males were the main bread winners. To break her family's poverty cycle, my mom was determined to be educated which would open up more opportunities by elevating her social status to marry into a more wealthy family. As with life, the stars played a different card for my mom so instead of marrying an educated man, as she had originally planned, she was bequeathed to my dad. My dad comes from a family of thirteen children, consisting of 12 boys and one girl. Living on a small island, my dad's family was one of the wealthiest families in their small village because all the boys were trained to be successful fisherman. Having a crew of 12 males pretty much meant your family was financial secure by Vietnamese measures. Unlike my mom, my dad was never an academic person. He only attended school until Grade 7 and even then he was not a good student, as he fondly recalls constantly being whipped for day dreaming or not completing his assignments. Instead, he preferred channeling his energy into martial arts, often practicing and training up to twelve hours a day. He mastered his fighting skills to the point that his spiritual body would leave this physical plane so he would pursue training with spiritual teachers.
My mom's father eventually became violently ill and on his death bed begged my mom to marry my dad. My mom had already fallen in love with another teacher, but her loyalty to her family's honor and her love for her dad was stronger, so she reluctantly obliged. My dad had already fallen in love with my mom, often shyly observing her when she came to buy fish from his boats. As per tradition, he had requested to court my mother, but it was quickly expedited to marriage because of my grandfather's sickness. Little did my mom know, her father's dying wish probably saved her life.
Shortly after the US army pulled out of Vietnam in 1975, Vietnam's fragile, war torn country crumbled to the North's communist regime. Although both of my parents grew up within the heat of war and were acclimatized to the brutality and violence that came with it, this new regime promised even more bloodshed. My dad had volunteered to fight against the North Communists and his mastery of martial arts quickly promoted him up the ranks into a senior position. After the fall of Saigon, the North Vietnamese quickly moved to install their new governing bodies. This included tracking down all the "rebels" that fought against them and imprisoning them within "re-education" camps to secure peace. Positioned as camps that provided proper education of the new communistic government through training and labour, the true goal was to indoctrinate the South Vietnamese with propaganda. Divided into five levels, the re-training camps took every South Vietnamese citizen, and depending on there involvement in the war, systematically applied differing techniques to ensure everyone adjusted to the new social norms without further disruption. Being a high ranking officer, my dad was classified to go into a Level 4 camp meaning there was no gentle "re-training" just a lifetime sentence of torture, punishment and poor living conditions. Death would have been an easier out.
My dad had not only mastered the art of karate, but also the art of hiding. For years, he was able to successfully avoid being re-captured by these education camps thanks to his younger fishing days. As a teenager he had discovered a hidden and uninhabited island and harboured there from 1975 until 1977 peacefully by himself. Even though he had married my mom, he mainly remained on the island while my mom stayed on the mainland to avoid capture. News of my conception in 1977 created a further dilemma in an already tumultuous future. My mom and dad were going to become parents. A funny thing happens when you become responsible for a life that is not your own. Your own life no longer matters. What matters is that your child survives, at all cost. My mom started panicking. The newly established Communist regime, still ballsy and hot after overthrowing the Americans off of Vietnam soil, announced that they were going to invade Cambodia. War was again knocking on Vietnam's doorstep. My dad finally realized his home was no longer the place he wanted to bring up a family. He concocted an elaborate plan to give his child the life he was never able to have. My mom, the more risk adverse of the two, spent the next nine months crying. She begged my dad to change his mind as she was positive his plan was a death sentence. My dad remained steadfast in his beliefs and wisely told my mom "No, giving our child this life is a death sentence. At least dying means you're at peace."
The next day he showed up at re-education camp and peacefully surrendered. For the next year and three months, although academia always eluded him, he finally became the perfect student. His obedient attitude earned him access to food, weapons and fuel which were the three elements he needed. He was such a stellar student that he was even allowed access outside the camp to visit his family and wife. Every day he would steal just enough so no one would notice and smuggled the much needed supplies out of camp. He secretly buried it on the island that had previously kept him safe. My mom's job was to quietly assemble the group that would leave with us and collect "payment" from non-family members. Having access to the army base also meant my dad knew intel of where all the heavily guarded areas were and where pirates were attacking the Vietnamese fleets.
The risky plan was coming together. A week before it was supposed to be executed, my dad caught wind that someone had leaked word of his stealing to the Communists. He had no choice. Ready or not, it was time. He stealthily sneaked out the camp to travel back to his family's island village and stole one of his family's fishing vessels. He then steered the boat back to the hidden island and loaded all of the supplies he had hoarded. In the safety of the night, he loaded 39 other passengers and prayed the unknown future ahead was better than the known future they were leaving behind.
In June of 1979, my dad became the unofficial captain of Faith. Faith that risking it all was worth it. Faith that dying was a better alternative than a lifetime of war, poverty and violence. Faith that there was more to life than just existing in fear. As we were leaving, Communist vessels spotted our boat and started pursuing us with all their fire power. Instead of just resigning to the fact that their citizens were fleeing in unprecedented numbers, the Communists' preferred to just kill their citizens. My dad's military training and fishing background played in our favor and he was able to out maneuver the Communist's fleet relatively unscathed. The boat of 40 people released a sigh of relief as we were able to survive the first major hurdle of out running the government.
A few days later, while everyone was still sleeping, a wealthy couple that had paid my dad substantial money to escape, decided to take a shower and foolishly depleted the fresh water drinking supplies that was calculated to last a month. My dad was equally devastated and enraged. He had painstakingly planned out every possibility that could have gone wrong on this dangerous mission but he never foreshadowed vanity as one of them. While other fleeing refugees died by fathomable perils such as dangerous storms, raiding pirates and rickety fishing vessels, we were near death because two idiots wanted to be clean. Anarchy started setting on the boat as the 40 people realized that there was only enough water to last another week at sea. My dad equally rationed off the remaining amount of water to everyone, but he secretly gave my 3 month old pregnant mom and his almost year old daughter an extra ration. At the end of the first week our boat had out run and out gunned multiple pirates, but the real danger was the lack of water. Both my parents sacrificed their ration of water to myself and my young aunt. Even though my mom was pregnant, she drank sea water to help stave off the dying thirst. At the end of the second week it was discovered that I still had some water rations, and in the middle of the night a desperate passenger held my mom and I at gun point. He demanded my dad hand over the last bottle or he could watch his family die. My dad was not to be tested. He had come this far and wasn't going to let some asshole take away his child's future so he quickly unarmed the desperate man. To restore safety on the boat, he locked up anyone he felt was a danger. From that point on, he armed his entire family of 18 people with weapons.
We drifted at sea for another couple of days. Everyone was dehydrated, weak and even delusional as death was staring each of us in the face...
Holy crap!!!!!
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