Dark Dreams

by Sonja Dechian

  When I reached my home in Breslau I found my mother. It was then a Polish city so we moved on to Central Germany. I worked hard and achieved my German equivalent of a TEE. I also started studying medicine in Berlin. At that time Berlin was in the middle of a Russian zone. It was occupied by four different countries. There was a showdown in Berlin and the Americans and British had to supply the town by air with all the necessities like food and fuel. It was then that I decided to leave Eastern Europe. I had to leave Berlin illegally because no one, except the American troops, was allowed in and out.

  I left Berlin with the help of the Americans. I was hiding under a soldier’s coat, so that when the Russians looked in from the platform they would not see me. The Americans were quite happy to let me leave for Paris as it meant fewer mouths to feed. I travelled by myself and my mother and father came afterwards. I spent four months in Paris before I could get a ticket on a boat to get to Australia. The ship was a converted army ship and it was very crowded. At that time no one would accept German currency so my passage was paid for by a Jewish welfare society. They also gave me some money in Australia to help me, which I had to repay.

  I arrived in Fremantle, Western Australia and was met by a cousin of my father who had immigrated to Perth in 1938 before the war started. He helped me obtain a permit to come to Western Australia.

  When I arrived in Australia I wanted to continue my medical studies but the West Australian University would not recognise my medical studies or even my TEE. My first job was a postman. I knew every dog in Maylands personally. After that job I managed a retail store. At the same time I studied accounting, economics and management by correspondence. I later had a job as an accountant. At that time my English was not particularly good. I had already learnt French, Russian, Latin and Greek but neither those nor my German were of any help while learning English.

  I have lived in Australia for around sixty years and in that time have been involved with the Jewish community. I met my wife Judith in 1957 when we were both singing in the Temple David Choir. Together we had two sons, Peter and Kevin.

  I don’t blame Germany for the way I was treated. It wasn’t Germany’s fault; it was the evil deeds of the Nazis of Germany. Most of the people who were a part of the treatment of Jews in World War II are either dead or the same age as me: they no longer have any power.’

  When I asked if Ken considered Australia or Germany his home he had one answer.

  ‘The world is my home.’

  THE SWIRL OF MEMORIES

  ‘Everyone was handing out roses and hugging us ... It seemed like the whole of Perth had come out with flowers just for us.’

  A Truly Great Australian

  by Jane Woodward, aged 16

  Each sunrise brings with it hope for the future and a new beginning. Every person on earth craves the freedom that Australians take for granted. In the late 1970s a young Vietnamese man had a dream of finding freedom because the life he had come to know was intolerable. It didn’t matter where it was, as long as it wasn’t in Vietnam. What decisions must face people living in an oppressed society when their only option for liberty is far away from the family that they love? Khiem Nguyen confronted those decisions and when he made his daring escape, Vietnam’s loss became Australia’s gain.

  When Khiem reflects upon his years in Vietnam after the country had been reunited under communist rule, he recognises that it was easier when his mind had closed the door to that past heart of darkness. In some respects he can still only vaguely see the contour of that door, as if looking through a veil of mist but in others it is as vivid as if he carried a photograph of it in his hand.

  The second Indo-China war began when Khiem was six years old and lived with his family in the market town of Choilon, approximately six kilometres from Saigon. He didn’t ever comprehend the devastation that was occurring in his country because his remarkable parents sheltered him and his siblings during the war. During the Tet Offensive, they made light of the mortar fire and turned hiding under the bed away from gunfire into a game. ‘They told us nothing so we were not afraid,’ he said. When he saw dead bodies littering the countryside he said, ‘I was not worried. I thought they were asleep.’ When Saigon fell in April 1975, Khiem was fifteen years old and much more aware of the evil that had descended upon his country.

  How does one remember the face of evil? Khiem didn’t understand until the fall of Saigon that the shape of society depends on the ethical nature of the individual as well as on a political system. It seemed as if the war and the resultant communist victory liberated everybody from society’s rules and taboos, and unfortunately, allowed people’s natural capacity for evil to dominate their existence and actions.

  The communist regime attempted to suffocate the conquered South Vietnamese—they were treated like animals. Life savings kept in the South Vietnamese currency were lost, propaganda was broadcast over public address systems from six in the morning until late at night attempting to brainwash the people into believing in the communist ideals, and their national consciousness was becoming humiliated and suppressed. All young people were obliged to attend nightly meetings where they were barred from leaving once they had arrived. Their purpose was first to prevent dissident groups forming and secondly to indoctrinate the young people further. They became the state’s slaves, required to work digging water trenches to the paddy fields in mine and bomb infested territory, and the schools were transformed from learning institutions to venues where the communists tried to transform the children into their image of equality and brotherhood. They could not be seen in groups of more than four because the perception was that they were rebels. The roots of the regime were solidly established in lies, fear, corruption and moral poverty. The lower level administrators extended the indignities to whatever level they saw fit. The communists thought Khiem should be a man at fifteen and they handed him a weapon, ‘an AK47, without any training,’ and told him, ‘just to pull on that button when he saw anyone on the street after midnight.’ He was forced to conduct a curfew patrol in his own neighbourhood between midnight and six in the morning and shoot anyone who defied it. If he refused his mission, the repercussions were enormous. He unwillingly became a part-time communist conscript and was used for some unspeakable purposes that it is clear he would rather forget. He vividly remembers being utilised to force a family from their home because the bureaucracy thought the family was rich as they lived in a big house. ‘They thought the rich were sucking the blood from the poor. But this family wasn’t rich. He was a hard working taxi driver. I had to hold my gun and be on guard and watch them cry. I felt so dreadful. I didn’t want to do this but I had no choice.’

  The people lost their privacy. Their doors were open for the police to walk into their homes at any time and take things that they thought were trappings of wealth. Their food supplies became scarce and hunger and fear became synonymous with living. Khiem conformed with the system for two years but then began to avoid the nightly meetings by hiding with friends and lying as to his whereabouts. His actions made it difficult for his family, because the police came looking for him, but they supported him. He dreamt of freedom and escape and planned elaborate getaways with his friends. He didn’t think of the risks involved, just of hope for a future in a free world.

  His salvation came by the hand of the Fifth Uncle who had managed to save US dollars and gold during the war. His uncle organised for his family, Khiem’s grandmother and one member of each of his brothers’ families to leave the country. Khiem was the one chosen from his family. He pleaded with his father to take his younger sister and twelve-year-old brother with him and eventually they found the means. His father’s words still ring in his ears, ‘Make sure that you look after them.’

  Three times they were told that it was time to leave, and three times they said their tearful goodbyes to later learn that it was a trap. When the fourth occasion came, they didn’t say proper goodbyes because they didn’t think it would happen this time eithe
r. ‘Later that made me feel so bad.’ The plan was that Khiem’s mother would tell the police that he had taken his younger siblings to the countryside to visit relatives. Excitement and anticipation had been elevated in the past, so on the fourth occasion Khiem was cool-headed and without expectation. The aura of calm, underscored by a pervading fear of detection, accompanied him. He also felt immense responsibility for the younger children.

  They moved to a meeting point and the organisers arranged for them to hide on the high canvas cover of a transport vehicle that was moving materials to Ca Mau on the southern most peninsula of Vietnam. The top of the vehicle was crowded with people, (including twelve of Khiem’s extended family) but Khiem managed to lift his head to catch glimpses of the passing countryside because, he said, ‘I thought it might be the last time I saw my country. I have such clear memories of green.’

  The trip to Ca Mau took about nine hours over poorly surfaced roads. It was terrifying because there was always a danger of being caught. The penalty for escaping was imprisonment and the risk of being shot. The vehicle finally stopped and Khiem’s bones ached from the reverberation of the rocky road through his body. He kept close to his young brother and sister and they were herded with a sense of panic and excitement onto another truck before being taken and deposited into the grounds of a temple. Corruption and bribery could only assure safety to a limited extent. For two long weeks they slept outside the temple, managing to purchase some food and water from people living nearby. Numerous times they were told that ‘tonight is the night’ but their hopes were continually frustrated. ‘We had been talking to other people and they said that they had been waiting for three months so I was in despair that we could ever leave.’

  At midnight on 14th April 1979 they were herded onto a truck and driven to a beach. They had to be deathly quiet because although police silence had been bought in one sector, it had not been in others. Khiem felt horrified when he saw that the boat was only about sixteen metres long and three metres wide and there were just so many people milling about hoping to get on it. He was gripped with fear when he saw that the petrol tank was a loosely attached forty-four gallon drum. ‘I worried so much about how such a flimsy boat could carry us to safety out into the sea. It was only meant for use in the rivers.’ Khiem hung onto his sister and brother, terrified that he might lose them in the crowd. Staccato voices permeated the air like gunfire. Names were being called. Would they be on the list? There was so much fear in the air. The police might come. Khiem had to be brave for them all. Khiem’s sister’s name was called and then he heard his own. ‘Move onto the boat or you’ll lose your place,’ they were ordered. The sense of fear and urgency gripped Khiem so badly that he could hardly breathe. His little brother’s name was not called. His father’s words echoed through his head, ‘look after them, look after them’. There was no choice—his brother’s name would surely be called. Khiem and his sister got onto the boat and found their cramped sitting place on the deck.

  When the boat commenced its journey Khiem still hadn’t found his brother among the 162 people cramped onto the deck and in the hold. His grandmother and uncle’s family had made it, together with one cousin from each family. There were some people who were very seasick and Khiem spent four days fanning people to cool them. After four days and nights and eight separate attacks by Thai pirates who boarded the boat carrying axes, knives and old handguns, they arrived at an island off Malaysia with barely the clothes they stood up in. They had lost all their possessions including Khiem’s glasses but were fortunate that his sister was one of the few women who was not raped. As Khiem sat on that deck, having lost his homeland, his little brother and all his possessions, he clung to his sister and dreamt of liberty. ‘I knew there were two choices, freedom or death so freedom was worth any cost.’ He didn’t cry because he didn’t have the energy after four days without food and water.

  They had to swim to the beach where they camped in an enclosed area in the open for four weeks, living on a staple diet of coconuts that had fallen from the trees. During the day they covered themselves with coconut palm leaves to protect themselves from the sun. Every morning when they woke they were soaked with moisture. They bathed in the sea and managed to get some water from a well dug by Malaysian soldiers camped nearby. They were brutally treated by the soldiers who struck them with sticks when they didn’t follow commands that were given to them in Malay. Khiem said, ‘we thought it was the Vietnamese Army and we had landed at the wrong place. All the girls had to pull their pants down and they said they were checking for arms but that wasn’t true.’

  After four weeks they were taken on a four-hour boat trip to a refugee camp at Palau Bidong, on the west coast of Malaysia. 52,000 refugees camped on that small island. Their family acquired a two-storey hut made from sticks that measured approximately three metres by three metres. They were luckier than most people. They slept on the rough floor with beds made from bark. Three-day ration packs were provided and they lived off curried beef, sardines and baked beans for eleven months. Water was scarce and had to be fought for until the family dug a well under their house. They bathed in the ocean, washing their clothes while they were still wearing them and allowing them to dry on their bodies. They had to use the forest for toileting. They had to cut down trees to get wood to light the fire for cooking. Life was very tough but Khiem and his sister were happy because they had begun their journey to freedom. They knew that eventually they would find a new home. Nothing could be as bad as the oppression in his homeland. The whole time however, he had a sick worrying feeling about the fate of his brother.

  Khiem later found that his brother’s name had not been on the list and he was apprehended by the police. He still lives in Vietnam.

  It was a sad day when Khiem’s grandmother died, unable to cope with the arduous journey and the conditions in the refugee camp. The day they buried their grandmother was the day they were interviewed about coming to Australia.

  ‘My sister and I were the only two people out of 162 who were chosen to come to Australia. It was very difficult to get into Australia. Everyone who went before us had their papers marked ‘REJECTED.’ My sister did it for us because she spoke English well. She had the government official laughing,’ Khiem said. They had been having English lessons in a church from two weeks after their arrival and had heard that they could listen to whatever music they wanted to and wear whatever they wanted in a ‘wonderful country called Australia.’

  Khiem and his sister arrived in Australia on 18th April 1980, a year to the day after they arrived in Malaysia. He was wearing the same clothes and underwear that he wore when he left Vietnam. They were flown directly to Canberra and were worried when they looked out of the plane thinking that they were being taken into the middle of the country because it was so open. They were taken to a government flat that had been furnished from St Vincent de Paul and Khiem thought that he was in heaven.

  One night he woke after a nightmare and found that his pillow was soaked from tears. He had cried for the first time for his country, his lost brother and his family.

  It took time to adjust but every step of the way was worth it. Khiem is now happily married with two beautiful daughters, owns his home and has been in full time employment from fourteen months after his arrival.

  Khiem’s story has changed my perception of refugees. How could such a gentle, hardworking and loving man have endured so much and still thank the world every day for his existence? I recognise now that behind every face there is a story to tell. Refugees have not only enriched our country but facilitated our recognition of the lucky country that we live in. A country that should open its doors to those who crave freedom.

  Khiem Nguyen is a truly great Australian!

  Denada’s Story

  by Rosa Brown, aged 12

  This is a story about a person, a refugee named Denada, a story about her time in detention, a story about our friendship.

  Denada left Albania and went to Kosova t
o flee the war and it was in Kosova where she met and married Mark. Mark had been taken by force to join the Kosova Liberation Army in 1999. For a year Denada did not hear from or see Mark. Then Mark managed to escape from the KLA and would have faced execution if he did not leave Kosova. So Mark and Denada left together and came to Australia. They arrived here on an airplane with fake passports and ID because they hadn’t had time to obtain visas. When they left the plane they explained to the guards and thought that they would be helped, but instead they were taken to Villawood Immigration Detention Centre. They spent more than 400 days there. At the end of 2001, Denada and Mark were released and went to live with Denada’s uncle in Adelaide.

  In June 2001 when I was in year six and lived in Canberra I went to a rally for refugees with my mum. There were six speakers and I found each one of them interesting. One of the speakers was Marion Lé, a migration agent. I had no idea of the terrible conditions refugees were having to face in Australia. I was very moved by the speeches and thought that I would like to help by writing to a refugee. Refugees have already suffered in their home country, experiencing war and famine. They make a terrifying escape and then, when they think the journey is finally over having reached Australia, they are taken to an Immigration Detention Centre for an indefinite amount of time. So at the end of the rally, I approached Marion and told her I would like to be in touch with a refugee in a detention centre. She knew Denada, because she was her lawyer. I wrote to Denada straight away. Denada could already speak and write some English, and I noticed her English improve as we corresponded. I told her about my life and asked her questions about detention. At the time I knew almost nothing.