Dark Dreams

by Sonja Dechian

by Gracia Diep, aged 15

  Vietnam today is a vibrant and thriving country that is populated with people who hold brave smiles on their faces despite their country’s brutal and depressing history. However, a long time ago Vietnam’s atmosphere was quite a different story. Communist parties were to come and strip away everything that was precious in Vietnam from its people. The Vietnamese were forced to live without any freedom either under the tough supervision of the communist party or in a re-education camp. The only happiness that these people had was the hope of escaping the country to have another chance at freedom in another land. Nga-Huynh was only twenty-one years of age when her family risked their lives to escape Vietnam.

  This is her story.

  The white building lay in the small town of Bên Tra. To the local people, it was an old run down building that had been abandoned. However, on 8th June 1979 the place held more than four hundred scared and desperate people who were waiting for their ticket to freedom.

  Nga-Huynh sat stiffly with her mother and father and waited, like everybody else, for the smugglers to organise the boat that they would use to escape. Nightfall came and the smuggler told the crowd to quickly assemble in a single line so they could all walk down to the boat in an orderly fashion. Nga-Huynh solemnly followed the smuggler’s directions and moved towards the boat. She didn’t dare to speak, as one loud voice could attract the attention of a nearby communist party. When she reached the boat and was allocated her spot, she sat down and crossed her legs. This was the position she had to remain in for most of the seven nights. As Nga and her family were on the very bottom deck of the boat, the atmosphere was extremely stuffy and she found it hard to breathe. Nga’s parents were nearby and they told her not to worry, as this was the start of their journey to freedom. Nga was still very optimistic about her family’s chance of survival.

  The first two nights of the boat trip were very tense as the boat still had a very high risk of being spotted by a communist boat that was out at sea. The first night, Nga slept soundly as she was dreaming of the new life that would await her if she survived this boat trip.

  By the third day of the trip things hadn’t improved. Nga started to feel the first pangs of starvation and thirst, as there was hardly a drop of drinking water left from her family’s ration. She had also been seasick a number of times throughout the day as the boat started to take on rougher waters and combat the harsh storm that was brewing over the South China Sea.

  Later on that day Nga’s father shook her awake and said, ‘We’ve lost everything, Nga, including our photos,’ he paused and wiped away a few tears before continuing. ‘They’ve just thrown away all of our luggage to help lessen the load on the boat. Nga, the boat is starting to slowly fall apart. They have to do everything they can to prevent it from sinking. Nga, promise me that if I die you won’t forget my face or your mother’s.’

  Nga realised that the boat probably had a few more days left before it would sink. She settled back against the wall and waited, like the rest of the passengers on board, to die.

  The next morning Nga’s mother shook her awake and told her that a man had taken his own life by jumping overboard during the night because he couldn’t stand the conditions that they were in anymore. Nga was dazed and shocked. Another woman had jumped overboard meaning to die but her husband had dragged her out of the water. Suddenly, Nga heard a loud scream and a naked woman appeared and started pounding the wooden floorboards of the ship screaming: ‘God take me away. God get me out of here. I want to go. I want to go.’

  The elderly woman who was sitting next to Nga said, ‘That woman’s been possessed by the water spirits, her mind belongs to them now.’

  The screaming woman was the one who had jumped overboard but was then rescued by her husband. Nga, trembling with fright, turned back to look out of the small window and wondered whether those water spirits might come and turn her mad as well. She had already contemplated that she would rather die out at sea than at the hands of the communists back home. Nga closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep.

  It was early morning and Nga awoke to a cold and painfully numbing sensation that was covering her legs and buttocks. She looked down and realised that during the night water had leaked in through the floorboards, and the whole deck was now flooded with waist deep water.

  ‘We’re going to die.’ Nga whispered to herself and wiped away the tears that were falling into the seawater that was numbing her body.

  At night, the first few drops of rain sounded against the sides of the boat. Quickly Nga grabbed a few old tins and joined the many others on board in catching the rainwater that would become her family’s drinking water for the next few days. She was glad that it had rained that night as her parents were both becoming weak, and needed all the water they could get. She helped her mother, who had become extremely faint. ‘Mother, please drink some. I don’t want you to die,’ Nga sobbed. ‘I feel like I’m dead already,’ replied her mother, weakly sipping the water.

  The next day Nga realised that many people on deck had already started to prepare for their death as their hope of survival was almost gone. The boat had started to fall apart even more and the water had risen up to her chest. She saw parents holding onto their small children weeping, the elderly closing their eyes awaiting the horrible fate that was to come, lovers holding onto each other and caressing each other’s faces for perhaps the very last time.

  The early rays of dawn started to appear as Nga slowly opened her eyes. She glanced out of the small window nearby and suddenly spotted a tiny green speck in the distance that was starting to emerge out of the horizon.

  ‘I see land! I see land!’ she screamed as she shook her parents and those around her awake.

  The rest of the deck was soon awake and becoming excited as their hope for freedom was near.

  It took another twelve hours before they would reach the land. During that time, Nga could not take her eyes away from the green speck, as she feared that it would be gone if she looked away. By night the first few signs of the land started to appear, lights, people, cars but most importantly freedom. Nga happily drifted to sleep.

  ‘Wake up Nga, We’re here!’ cried her father. Nga woke up and quickly followed the crowd that was trying to squeeze out of the tiny door. She stepped out of the boat and admired the surroundings; she felt a cool breeze against her face and knew that she had made it through the hard journey to freedom. She could feel the sun roasting her pale skin and felt a wave of happiness wash over her for the first time since they left Vietnam.

  After they settled into their cabins on this Malaysian island, Nga and the other Vietnamese headed toward the main hall in the village to have their evening meal. Having not eaten for almost eight consecutive days, Nga ate her bowl of rice, savouring every last grain. This is the best meal I’ve ever had, she thought to herself. She was relieved to find that both her parents were eating properly and neither of them was seriously ill, unlike some of the other adults on board. Nga and her family stayed at the small village for eleven days before being transported by army trucks to a nearby harbour. When they reached the harbour they were told to get on board a large ship, that would then take them to an official refugee camp in an island named Pulau PaPan.

  ‘Mummy, I don’t want to go on another boat ever again. I don’t want Daddy to die again,’ said a little boy, that was standing next to Nga. The boy’s mother, who was now a widow, tearfully told her son that this ship would take them to a better place, where he could play with his toys again and go to school. Nga felt herself getting teary and held tightly onto both her parents’ hands as she boarded the large Malaysian ship.

  When she was on the ship, Nga smelt a nauseous odour that smothered over the atmosphere on board. She quickly ran to the side of the ship and joined many others in vomiting, as the odour had all been too much for her.

  After one day the ship arrived at the island. Nga noticed that the island was very beautiful and happily stayed at the camp for nine mo
nths. During this time the Red Cross came and delivered clothing, food, blankets to all the refugees, and Nga felt very grateful to receive such generous support by these people.

  After five months, Nga and her family received news from the High Commission of Australia that they were due to be interviewed for refugee status in Australia. Nga felt a little nervous but extremely happy as she was going to be reunited with her sister, who had already fled to Australia from Vietnam one year before. At the interview the family was told that Nga’s sister was offering to sponsor them to Australia.

  ‘We’re going to see her,’ cried her parents happily hugging each other. Nga spent the rest of that night celebrating with the friends she had made at the refugee camp.

  A few months later, Nga boarded her first flight, which was to Australia. She settled into her seat comfortably and gave a reassuring smile to both her parents. As the plane started to take off, she closed her eyes and for the first time ever she felt free.

  Today, Nga-Huynh is a happily married, working woman with two daughters. She lives in Melbourne and has found life in Australia very pleasant and would even call it her ‘home’. However, she would like to go back to Vietnam one day to see her old house and what has happened to the country since she left it in 1979. Nga-Huynh sacrificed a lot for a chance at freedom and has come out maintaining her strong character. The experiences of her escape from Vietnam haven’t weakened her at all; they have made her into an even stronger person.

  To Be Someone

  by Bojana Bokan, aged 18

  That morning of late summer 1991, at the bottom of the stairs in our building, I cried, for I had forgotten my teddy bear. My father went back while my mother was comforting me. When I had the teddy bear in my arms again, I told him that I was sorry for leaving him and that it would not happen again.

  Behind us heavy doors closed loudly and we found ourselves on the street—a street I knew well, for I had spent my first six years playing there. First laugh, first tears and first steps lay there. But this time, before us was a different street, different streetlights. Whispering of rustling leaves had a different sound, and the wind didn’t seem to warmly welcome us but rudely cuffed us.

  On the way to the village there were too many crying children who tried to find their parents to defend them, who frenziedly were running in different directions. Among scared and uneasy faces, here and there were cynical looks and smiles on faces which moved through that stream.

  Hopping onto warm grandma’s lap didn’t last long. We left for Bosnia where first sarcastic words met us. I didn’t know the reason for that, nor do I now. We were different. My first days in school weren’t happy. At lunch times I didn’t run around laughing, nor would I return home full of school stories. Every now and then my brother would check on me, for others would easily pick on me. But there were times when they would pick on him and I couldn’t help.

  Is having only one pair of pants, not eating croissants with jam in the morning but only a thin piece of bread, speaking with a different accent, a good enough reason to humiliate someone? Someone? Too early I learned the meaning of ‘no one’.

  The end of that school year was long awaited. The day after receiving our reports we went back home, not to open that heavy door again but just to look at our homes from a distance. The city was divided, and our building was on the other side. We could see and even hear talk among people on that side and they could hear us. Often the two different sides made provocative jokes, not because they knew each other from before but because they were going to learn about each other. We had one thing in common: they were in our houses, and we were in somebody else’s houses. There was not an answer for that. They were in our city, a city unknown to them, for that was the first time they were there, while we, whose city that was, could only look at our familiar streets.

  Although we were on the other side, and we were eating only bread and cherries for three years, we were happy. All that side was like one huge family. There was no reason for thinking someone would get our words wrong, or that there was somebody who would not like the way we think. Children’s laughter was full of life again. The memories of that time are still vivid. Later when I learned the meaning of ‘democracy’ I had the picture of that time in my head.

  ‘All good things are not lasting for long,’ people would say. Probably, in that way, they were trying to find an answer for things that happened and they could not explain why.

  In the spring of 1995, jokes were not interesting or laughable any more, for they became real. After four years, sounds of hand grenade changed alarm clock once more. Even if the sky was clear, thundering could be heard, and ill-timed began. Rain of bullets didn’t cause rivers to flood, but innocent children’s blood to flow down the streets. Red footprints, little shoes, ripped clothes, motionless bodies covered our favourite playground. Every new lightning was followed by shrill cries. And each time when one would try to go to the shelter the raindrop would hit him.

  The long time after, the ill-timed stopped, for the other side expanded to our side, by someone’s sick demand. Shrill cries were resounding along red streets and we found new graves without names on each turn. Is that my cousin’s or my friend’s grave, or of the little neighbour’s child only a few summers younger than me? Am I looking at my own grave? The Dark Age came again, and the only ray of some dim light was coming from Serbia.

  The way took us to the legendary city of battle, Vukovar. But we didn’t stop there for long, for we were just passing by. Not staying there for long was a good in evil, for life there brought back ugly memories of my miserable life in Bosnia.

  To keep going was like living on bleakness. It was impossible to stay where we were coming from, for we were unwanted. Nor was it possible to keep going, for we were unwelcome wherever we would go. But the pathway ended in Serbia.

  For all there was a place, a seat in a theatre, but not for people who came from Croatia. We were just secretly looking from outside through illicit doors at the alluring stage where everything seemed easy and beautiful. When somebody, whether an adult or a light-headed child, noticed us, they would use all in their power to lower our heads, to throw us on our knees—and not to enjoy the play. The evil could not persist and he took his final part in that drama. The play finished in late March 1999. Suddenly all of us were welcome to enter into the theatre.

  Like in an earthquake, everything was shaken: houses, bridges, and people’s faith in themselves and life. During the day everything was as usual, but dusk would bring uneasy feelings and the need to stay close by our house with our beloved ones. Sound of an airplane, inward whistle, voiceless peal and somebody’s house was turned into a huge hole in the earth. By the morning tears on cheeks were dry, and swollen eyes stared somewhere into the distance beyond the horizon where quiet moans couldn’t come. Soon it wasn’t possible to make any difference between day and night. There was not only one house in flame, but many houses and tongues of flames licked the sky, leaving it yellow. The following day gave an impression of dusk, for the air was filled with grime and dense smoke, and the opposite bank of the river was inaccessible. Terror became our constant attendant, while people lost their sense of time and ability to distinguish between daylight and light given by flame. Men lost any feeling of being among people, for a man could never know when somebody would turn against him. When the stage was clear we were ready to go.

  For who knows how long I held my teddy bear in my arms waiting for something, probably for some door to open just a little. Finally there was one: Australia opened a door for us.

  We arrived on 24th March, 2000. The first thing I noticed was a clear lofty sky, without the dark clouds that would bring rain. Somebody told us that there are no earthquakes in Australia, and that brought us back a warm feeling around our hearts, lost in the past.

  It took us eleven long years to arrive, but when we exited, door left opened and the wind was friendly. We drowned into the surroundings without leaving a blip, leaving behind
that label on our foreheads.

  An Interview with Ali

  by Sarah-Jane Bryson, aged 16

  Before me sat Ali. His black hair was cut in a style common to teenage fashion and he wore a black and red polo shirt, untucked over his jeans and boots. It was easy to assume he was the same as every other student at school; our school is extremely multicultural, so his heavily accented English was a part of the norm. We had been shoved into a small office, about three metres by three in size, to conduct our interview so as not to disturb the others working in the library. Gesturing at the room, Ali said, ‘They had rooms in the detention centres, rooms same size as this—there were three people sleeping in there.’

  Ali arrived in Australia on 1st October 1999. He left his family and friends behind in Altato in Afghanistan. Ali told me Altato was a small village and its people just tried to live their lives there, but this simple lifestyle had shattered when, a year earlier, the Taliban came. At first, some of the people in the village resisted. They were killed. Ali witnessed friends, family and community members murdered and persecuted during the time the Taliban were in Altato. Ali was sixteen years old, which placed him in danger of being recruited by the Taliban to fight. ‘I had reached the age that I had to do military service and also I’d be able to carry weapons so they would take me to fight … so, I had to escape.’

  Often when the Taliban were in the village, Ali and his father escaped to the nearby mountain and lived in the caves. Ali’s mother and six siblings were left vulnerable to the Taliban, who continually ransacked the villagers’ houses for belongings and money and to capture young men. One was Ali’s cousin, who has never been heard from since. It was at this point that Ali’s father decided to send him away, so he would not suffer the same fate as his cousin.

  ‘Firstly, my Dad contacted his friend to prepare things for me to escape the country, so I escaped in a car and he took me across the border, into Pakistan. All smuggling, so I had to hide. In Pakistan another smuggler had prepared everything to smuggle me to Indonesia, so I come to Indonesia and not knowing that I’m travelling to Indonesia. I didn’t know anything … the things that I was caring for was to go to a place that’s safe.’