Children of the Enemy

by Steven DeBonis

  For the Amerasian, language is power, and few, if any, have the command of English that Raymond displays. When journalists came to Vietnam to research the Amerasian situation, it was often Raymond they spoke to or who translated for them. When Vietnam vet John R. returned to Vietnam to set up an English program for Amerasians, Raymond was his contact. For many Vietnamese refugees, especially Amerasians, it was Raymond they sought out in “Amerasian Park,” located near the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, to fill out their applications for the Orderly Departure Program. In the PRPC, he has worked as an interpreter for numerous people, including myself His skills at translating are excellent.

  Raymond’s makeshift scrapbook is stacked with his clippings from a number of American papers, and his name appears in several books about Vietnam. He is well known, and those that do know him tend to form strong opinions about him, whether positive or negative. He is seen by some as a samaritan, utilizing his skills to teach and aid other Amerasians. Raymond certainly sees himself in this light. Others view him as a con-man who exploits his language abilities for his own ends at the expense of others, making sure his side of the story is always heard. In reality, there is probably something of both aspects in Raymond.

  Controversy seems to follow Raymond. Shortly after our first meeting, he was arrested and sent to a Filipino prison in Balanga, the provincial capital of Bataan, for his alleged part in the stabbing of another refugee, a small-time tough named Duc. Three other Amerasians were charged in the attack and incarcerated together with Raymond. The oral histories of two, Tuan Den and Charlie, also appear in this book.

  After several months of detention, the charges of “Frustrated Murder,” the Philippine equivalent of attempted homicide, were dropped, and the four were sent back to the PRPC. Although no longer suspects under Filipino law, they were put on hold by, OVA, the organization responsible for expediting refugee departures to the United States from the PRPC. Raymond and the others found themselves in a bureaucratic limbo, their scheduled departures for the States postponed indefinitely.

  In our early conversations, Raymond denied any involvement in the stabbing, ostensibly to protect himself Months later, when the issue was already moot, he was to admit to me a role less benign.

  Raymond appears considerably older than his documented age of twenty-six and readily admits that, as an orphan, he knows neither his true age nor his paternity. Some believe him to be the son of an African soldier from the French colonial forces, rather than an Amerasian. Because of his fluency in English, he has even been suspected of being an American GI who remained in Vietnam after the war and is trying to reenter the United States through the Amerasian program to escape detection and possible prosecution. The former, Raymond admits, is a possibility, the latter he characterizes as “absurd.”

  As Raymond’s speech is fluent and colloquial, I have retained many of the nonstandard pronunciations and tense changes in order to preserve the original flavor of the narrative.

  MY EARLIEST MEMORY is of an orphanage, a Catholic orphanage in Vung Tau. I just cut out of there, you know. I left with a bunch of kids, Amerasian, Korean, Filipino, all mixed race kids. I was seven or eight, out on the street, shinin’ shoes day by day. I was hangin’ around this black bar, shinin’ shoes there, when I met one black American soldier, his name is Robert Handler [not a real name]. He adopted me and took me to live with him inside the base. I learned English from him and his friends. They were all black, and most of the time I was just hangin’ around with all these GI’s, and I’d be listenin’ to them talk. I was young; they didn’t want to let me go off the base because they be afraid that the VC might give me a box of cookies, and it might have a bomb inside. But most of the time I just sneaked out. I just wanted to stay outside in town and run around with my friends, playin’, swimmin’, sometimes stayin’ at the beach all day.

  I can’t remember exactly how long Robert Handler stayed in Vietnam, but I tell you, I think it was a long time because I can remember him more than the others who took care of me after he went back to the States. [After Robert Handler] there was a teacher, a black American, he taught for what they call the American-Vietnamese Association. He was in the army. He took care of me for . . . I don’t know how long, but many times I ran away from home. That guy, he’s so strict you know, he wanted to put me in school. That time I could speak English already, and I thought I was good, too good to be put in school. I liked to be out runnin’ more. When Robert was in Vietnam, he put me in school, and I stayed only two days. I spoke English, you know, more outstanding than the other students, so I just was . . . self confident, that’s it.… I didn’t have to learn more, I liked to play more than study.

  In ’72, when all the troops were gettin’ out, I met this lady, she says she’s my mother, you know. I was an orphan, I didn’t know who my mother was. Then this lady comes, says she’s my mother, and takes me with her. I thought, “Hey, I got a mother,” and I’m just so happy, I didn’t think about who she was. I was in heaven. Later, some people told me that she was not my real mother, but I don’t know . . .

  She took me up to Saigon, but after about a month, a month and a half, I was bored, so I just sneaked out of there. You know, I liked to live on the street. I was just runnin’ around, and I was tryin’ to look for Americans. I met this marine, he was guarding the U.S Embassy. His name was Albert McClean [not a real name]. He’s young, about twenty or so, a black guy. You know the guards, they don’t live inside the U.S. Embassy. They live in the billet, and I was staying there with him. He’s takin’ care of me, and he also was tryin’ to put me in the school, but I said no.

  Then in ’75 Saigon fell, and I was runnin’ away from the place where I lived with the marine guard. The VC, they started comin’ in. I was worried, so I went back to my mom, and she took me out to the countryside. She thought it would be safe there, but once we get there the VC is comin’ in there too. She gets real scared, and after four or five days she brought me back to Saigon. She burned all the pictures, all the photos that I have, that I took in the base. She destroyed them all. Even the letters that Robert Handler wrote to me she burned, she burned everything.

  Raymond, spring 1992

  She was afraid, and so was I. When I lived inside the base, I looked at the movies for instruction for soldiers on duty. They always say, “VC, they hate Americans.” I feel that I’m an American also, and I think, “They gonna get me too.” I’m afraid, and I cannot deal with it myself. I must depend on my mother, and at that time I be afraid to separate from her.

  She brought me back to Saigon, but she got sick and could not take care of me. I had to go around to neighbors, friends, and I ate there. I went out to the center of Saigon. The VC are comin’ in with their tanks. They’re celebrating, kinda proud. People are robbing, looting, breakin’ into houses, carrying all the property out.

  I go over to the U.S. Embassy and just walk inside. All the cars are torn up, the doors are broken in. I just go in and look at all the rooms, and I think, “Everything is gone, and I’m still here.” I heard people say the helicopter picked everybody up here, and I think, “If my mom didn’t take me to the countryside, maybe I would have got away already.” I think about that, and I suffer.

  You know, the marine who was my friend, he told me before, he tell me like this, he say, “Raymond, I’m worryin’ about you, because I think the VC are gonna come in, in maybe one more month.” And I think he’s trying to frighten me, you know, scare me. He always was jokin’ with me, you know. And he say, “You know, Raymond, I’m tryin’ to take you back to America, but it’s too short to make the papers.”

  I just walked around in the street, and I met this old man who was a cigarette vendor. He was sitting there eating, and I was kinda hungry, you know, so I was just standing there, watching him eat. He asked me, “Where your home, where your parents?” And I say, “I have no parents.” So he ask me, “You want something to eat?” I say, “Yeah,” and he buy me a piece of bread. And he tell me,
“Okay, you just sell this cigarette, this candy, and I will give you some food.” And I did. I was selling and selling.

  Around June of 1975, they had a campaign about peace and order. After Saigon fell, people was breakin’ into houses and takin’ everything. So the police arrested vendors, beggars, criminals, anybody. That’s when they pulled me in and sent me to the reeducation camp. They say it’s reeducation, but it’s a prison, hard labor, working.

  First, they bring us all together in the city prison, Chi Hoa. I stayed there about four months. Then they transferred me out to labor camp. They sent me to Nong Giao, they call it Nong Giao base. It used to be for basic training for the South V.N. army, but now they use that for the detainees. I was still young then. I didn’t have to work too hard, I just did all these cleaning things. I didn’t have to go out and work on the farm like the adults.

  They transferred me to many different locations. I been to about six places, including the central highlands, in the twelve years they kept me locked up in those camps.

  The guards, they treat the South Vietnamese who had relations with the Americans especially bad. They always tell them, “You are the enemy.” So I was treated worse, ’cause at that time I didn’t speak Vietnamese fluently. I spoke more English, you know, street English. I sang only American songs, like “My Girl,” and “Since I Lost My Baby,” songs by the Temptations. I don’t know how to sing Vietnamese songs, and most of the stories I know about are the American stories.

  Now, I am fluent in Vietnamese, but about writin’ and readin’, I can’t do them well, ’cause I never been to elementary school, I was taught by a Vietnamese prisoner. I can read and write English, but not too well.

  There were many rules in the labor camps—don’t speak any language except Vietnamese, and don’t practice any religion or create any group for praying or anything like that. Don’t fight, don’t talk about the politics. Three people cannot group together talking, they think you may be trying to escape.

  When the prisoners are working, most of them like for me to sing American songs. When I get caught, the guard says, “Raymond, what’s the song you singing?” I say, “I’m singing my father’s song.” He says, “Well, you know that if you singin’ that song, that mean you are the enemy,” and he start givin’ me the instructions about Communism They not allow you to sing a blues song in camp, you always sing red songs—fight, fight, fight, fight the Americans, fight the French, how we won the war, all that stuff. I can’t stand that music.

  So, afterward they make a statement. They say that I was breakin’ the rules of the camp, speakin’ a different language. They don’t beat me, because I’m too young to beat. They put me in the cell, and they chain my leg. Every day they give me a meal, but only half, because they say, “You don’t work, you just layin’ there in the cell so you don’t need to eat much.”

  I never knew when I would get out of prison camp. When I was in jail in Saigon, I asked them how long they gonna keep me there, and they said about three months. That was the penalty for street vendors. But then three months passed, and I didn’t get out, and they transfer me to the reeducation camp. When I get there, someone says to me, “The Communists, they have no limit on the sentence. They say that if you good, your brain has been “washed,” you a good worker, then they let you free.” I wanted to try to escape, but at that time I was very young. The adults don’t let the young follow them, so they don’t let us know when they escape. But I saw them, and when they escape, if they got caught, the VC shoot them. Sometimes you don’t try to escape, sometimes you just crawl out of the camp, trying to steal some manioc and some potatoes, ‘cause everyone is hungry, they don’t feed you enough. They know, they know that the prisoner is not trying to escape, that they just trying to get something to eat, but they shoot them anyway.

  We have to get up at five-thirty in the morning, and by six we’re already out on the farm working. We don’t get no food before we work. There are teams, about fifty workers on a team, one team leader, a vice—team leader, a secretary. Every day we get a work assignment. The guards say, “Okay, if you finish this as early as you can, you can go home and rest. But if you just keep trying to delay, you stay there until you finish.” We work outside the camp perimeter, big jobs, cuttin’ and diggin’ deep to build canals. There is no water in the prison camp, you have to go out to the stream to get water. Most of the time that’s where the prisoners escape, so they wanted to build a canal to bring the water inside the camp.

  At lunch they give you a bowl of rice and some vegetable soup with fish sauce, no meat. You only can have meat when they have a celebration, a holiday, a Communist holiday. Then you can have a piece of thin, thin meat. They make people hungry, but you have to work hard. Many people violate their rules, because you cannot be good if you hungry. You steal; if you get depressed, angry, you might turn wild, kill somebody. This happened a lot inside the camp.

  We work every day, no holiday. They say we have one day off, Sunday, but Sunday you don’t work outside the camp, you work inside the camp. They say that’s for doin’ your own things, your clothes, but you work hard. When you work outside the camp, maybe you can go and find some wild fruit. You can maybe rest a little bit, but inside, aw... it was terrible inside the camp. No trees and all this hot sun, and you cannot go inside the hut where we sleep. If you go inside the hut, they just beat you up and they give you a punishment. So we have to work all day in the sun . . . aw, it’s awful.

  You get teaching at seven in the evening, until nine-thirty when you go to bed. They give you your instructions for tomorrow, and they give you feedback for that day, what you have done, what is your mistake. The first instruction is that you have to finish the assignment that is given to you. They don’t care how hard it is. If you don’t, you have to receive the punishment. The punishment depends on how bad your work is. If you really lazy, or you be late they give you long punishment.

  They give you Communist training, especially for minors, like me at that time. We minors not working too hard, but they training us hard. They point to the American, and they always say, “That’s the enemy. They are the reason that our country became poor and suffers.” When I’m in class, I don’t really listen to them. I’m always playin’ and not payin’ attention, so when they ask me the question, I cannot answer. For the punishment, I have to go to the cell. They say that I . . . what do you call this word . . . oppose them. But I don’t actively oppose them. Some people oppose by acting, but me, I’m too young to act. I can’t do nothing, they gonna beat me to death if I act. So I just don’t answer, I don’t talk, I don’t sing their songs. They say raise your hand and say, “America is damned.” I don’t do that. So they say I’m hard-headed, and they put me in the cell.

  The prisoners are all in miserable circumstances, all the same, just thinking “I want to be full.” So the Communists they use you . . . . They pick one prisoner out, they give him a lot of food, and they send him back to give reports, you know, to give them information every day. So some prisoners start doin’ like that, informing, and many time I get caught by one of them. It’s nighttime, the cell is locked, you cannot go outside, we’re supposed to be sleepin’. I be layin’ in bed or in a group talkin’ about a story and a man turns me in. The next morning the team leader announces, “Raymond, after you come back, go see a counselor, and I say “Aw, I got trouble,” but I can’t even imagine what I did. I didn’t fight, I didn’t steal, so what’s the problem? All the trouble is that I told about American stories and sang American songs and they lock me in the cell again. If the other prisoners find an informer, they kill him. They might stab him, throw some boiling water on some part on his body or even his head as a warning.

  If people get sick, they got a clinic, with this one kind of medicine. If you got fever, if you got a cold, if you got a headache, they give you the same medicine. Many people got sick, especially with malaria. I never got malaria, you know why? I always follow this one old guy, he’s an ARVN officer, a col
onel. He been in training in America, and he speaks English fluently, so he always speaks English with me, and he taught me to read and write some Vietnamese too. He’s a preacher also, He comfort me and he give me patience, you know, to believe in God. Sometimes I think of everything back when I was livin’ in the base. I lost everything, and now I’m in hell. Then I want to kill myself, I just think about dying. But he tell me, “If you die, you have to die for something. If you die, you have to hurt them. Kill one or two of them, and then you can die. Don’t kill yourself, you got to be tough enough to survive.” That colonel, they never let him go, he was still there when I was released.

  He and his friend, they have a secret group, you know, they have meetings in camp. They loved me because I always oppose the VC. The other children they don’t, they just follow, but I always say, “I grow up with Americans, I didn’t grow up on Vietnamese food.” The other Amerasians, they did not grow up on the base, so they cannot realize, you know, how it is. They don’t know if it’s true or not, what the VC say. So, they be in the middle, but me, I know.

  One time I ask the VC, “Why you say, you know, that I am the sign of the enemy that was bombin’ this country, that was rippin’ this country off?” I was standin’ in front of the whole camp, with two more black Amerasians and one white Amerasian. They all been violating the rules, fighting. But for me, it was my spirit, so they make an example of me. This VC was giving instructions and gettin’ kinda angry. He say, “You hard-headed, but we have punishment for hard-headed people.” So what do they do? They squeeze you, they make you hungry, and you will be weak, then you will obey. They don’t beat me up. They just put me in a cell, and I don’t have to work. But I don’t have much to eat or drink either. It’s hot in there, and the mosquitoes and bed bugs . . . Oh jeez, many people die in that cell. They put me there four times. And then I was thinkin’ about escapin’. I was thinkin’, “Aw, when I’m gonna be released, when they gonna free me?”