By Eric Cao
“Ăn chưa?” is a Vietnamese phrase that is commonly said among friends and family. It’s an expression that translates to “eat yet?” On the surface it’s asking if you’ve eaten, but really it’s meant as a gesture to check that you’re doing okay.
It’s this unspoken dialogue which underlies the experience that my mother and other Vietnamese migrants express without saying when meeting in their day-to-day lives. Similar to when you listen to music that encapsulates a mood or when the musician is able to sing what you can’t say. It’s a feeling that’s there even when you can’t acknowledge it.
Food can be a powerful trigger and can bring us back to certain points in time, whether it be a memory of a joyous event, the throes of a food poisoning incident or, in my mother’s case, the ongoing trauma of her refugee experience.
One time, while watching a Luke Nguyen cooking segment on making laksa, she blurted out “I hate laksa!” while glamour shots of the soup being poured into a bowl played. She then revealed that it was the food she had been served daily while in a refugee camp in Kuala Lumpur.
There are more detailed accounts from various authors about the Vietnamese refugee experience, but this piece is an account of what my mother remembers about coming to Australia. I can paint a picture, but the gravity of what she experienced still lives with her and over one million Vietnamese migrants across the globe.
The year was 1975, and the Vietnam War was declared over. Saigon was renamed Ho Chi Minh City, and the North was sweeping through the South with the purpose of “re-educating” the losing side. In reality, the people in the South were being punished by a brutal regime; persecuted, extorted, imprisoned, displaced into uninhabitable regions to perform hard labour, or outright murdered. In the years to follow, an estimated two million people risked their lives and fled the country by sea. They were labelled the “boat people”.
There are thousands of accounts of harrowing experiences. Stories of enduring harsh conditions at sea, combating extreme hunger and thirst, surviving pirate attacks and losing loved ones, to stories of hope from the ones that were able to resettle in countries like Australia, Canada, and the US.
Among them was my mother, Thi-Sang Cao, then aged 19, with a one-year-old daughter in tow. She recalls leaving with nothing else but the clothes on her back. Her then-husband was settled in Australia and secured arrangements for her travel. The goal of this journey was to reunite with him and build a new life in Australia. The stark reality was that it would be nearly a year before they could meet again.
It was September 1978. Thi-Sang had boarded a boat in Vung Tau, a port city in the southeast of Vietnam. The boat was bound for Pulau Bidong (Bidong Island), a small island in the Malaysian archipelago. She boarded alongside 120 other men, women, and children on a single vessel. My mother recalls feeling sea sick and throwing up for three days until they disembarked. To this day, she shudders at the thought of nautical travel.
The name Pulau Bidong still haunts her. It was a location that became the main refugee settlement in the region which grew exponentially over the years it operated. It was estimated to have housed over 40,000 people within the first year Malaysia opened it to refugees in August 1978. It’s a place that represents a time of uncertainty and loss but also hope with the prospect of resettling and starting anew.
My mother was in one of the first groups to land. Upon arrival, they discovered the island was devoid of shelter. They built huts from salvaged materials like timber, tree branches, and iron sheets from their boats. To lessen her discomfort, she recalls using cardboard on top of leaves and branches to sleep on.
Clean drinking water was obtained by digging wells, and people ventured out to mountaintops to collect it. Food was scarce and was gathered through fishing and hunting local wildlife. Eventually, bottled water was supplied with rations by various aid organisations. She remembers being supplied a whole raw chicken every month and having to think of ways to make it last. Caring for her daughter was another challenge. At one stage her child fell ill, and she was deeply concerned for her survival due to the lack of resources and medical aid.
My mother stayed on Pulau Bidong for 10 months before being transferred to Kuala Lumpur for medical screening. It was here that her famous derision of laksa began. Her initial thoughts were that it was quite tasty, but after the umpteenth time, the flavours began to feel bland. This, in combination with the dreariness of her ordeal, spoiled it for her permanently.
After a month in Kuala Lumpur, she was cleared for travel by the Australian Department of Immigration and Ethnic Affairs. She boarded a plane bound for Sydney and was reunited with her husband on July 25, 1979. She vividly remembers this date as it marked her first day in Australia and the start of a new chapter in her life.
Food was as a means of preserving her cultural identity. After settling in Sydney, she remembers struggling to find the ingredients to make her favourite dishes. Over time she found grocers that sold the exact ingredients or something close to what she was after. In a way it was like putting a puzzle back together. Her reformed dishes represent a link to what came before and what will continue with her legacy.
For us, and I’m sure most families, food is what brings us together. Each of her four children has a favourite dish that she prepares. My thoughts shift to steak and onion, but for my three sisters, who live around different parts of Sydney, it’s Bún Bò Huế. A rich, spicy noodle soup with tender beef and pork slices, topped with fresh herbs. Its taste, warmth, and textures remind them of the comforts of home.
My mother would often summon the family on Sunday via WhatsApp. A message along the lines of “Mẹ làm bún bò huế” translating to “Mum make bún bò huế” calling out like the bat signal to return to the nest. One by one, her children would arrive with grandkids in tow. Upon entering the door, each troupe would be greeted by my mother with warm hugs, followed by “Ăn chưa?” a familiar phrase we all grew up with.
Featured image: Painting by unnamed street vendor of Thi-Sang Cao aged 18 (1986). Photo: Eric Cao
