During the “re-education” years in the North, I was transferred to many camps. From Lao Cai, down to Hoang Lien Son, then Nghe Tinh. When I first arrived at Hoang Lien Son, I was taken to the Bat Cave camp, located deep in the mountains. The climate was harsh and unforgiving, s in less than two years, more than twenty inmates perished and were buried below the flank of the hill. After that, I was transferred to camp 6/Nghia Lo. This camp was located near the Commanding Hadquarters of the General Camp, and only separated from Camp 5, where nearly 30 South Vietnamese generals were kept, by just a fence and a few ponds for raising pike fish. During the day, when I went out to work, I still got to see some of my old teachers and we’d tell one another all kinds of stories, happy as well as sad. On the day of admission, after the paperwork was completed, the camp’s education officer put 50 of us in the barracks, a temporary structure with thornless bamboo roof and earthen floor, and waited for “comrade warden” to come and receive us.
A few minutes later, an officer holding the rank of senior lieutenant came in. The first thing we saw was that he had only one arm left. The other arm was half gone, showing just a sleeve of Nam Dinh khaki, hanging loosely and swinging back and forth to the rhythm of his walk. The air became suffocating. Without saying it out loud, it out loud, everyone shared the same thought: – This is really what a blood debt is all about, but how can we pay it off? To our surprise, the warden came in front of us with a smile. Looking at his gentle face and honest eyes, we were relieved. With a strong Nghe Tinh accent, the warden introduced his name: Nguyen Van Tha, then “reported” some rules and requirements of the Camp. He gave the captainof our group a student notebook, so each of us could be given a sheet to write down an “abbreviated resume”. I was writing a resume of three generations with so many “crimes” under the sea and sky that I had memorized for a long time – because I had done it a hundred times, even in the times they woke me up in the middle of the night – when I suddenly heard the warden ask: – Is there anyone here from the 23rd Division? I was silent for a moment and then said:
– I was, Cadre. – What regiment were you in? – 44th Regiment. – So you did participate in the battle of Trung Nghia in Kon Tum early summer 1972? -Yes, Cadre. The warden raised up the arm that was half missing, with only the sleeve dangling: -I lost this arm in that battle. Looking around, Isaw that all eyes were on me. To regain my composure, I pretended to be proactive: – In which unit were you at that time? – I was in the tank regiment of Division 320. The warden glanced around, then lowered his voice and continued: – We were trounced in that battle. My whole tank battalion had only two left. My T54 caught fire. I managed to get out, but was taken prisoner by you people. – Then you were returned afterwards? I asked. – I was seriously injured, because the ammunition in my car exploded. I was taken to the Pleiku military hospital by your brothers for treatment. Thanks to that, I was still alive and was returned in the last prisoner swap in 1973, after the Paris Agreement.
At that time, in the North, especially in the Hoang Lien Son area, it was very cold. Each barracks was allowed to dig a hole in the middle of the house and burn the stumps we had picked up in the forest, and brought back home after working hours. Every night, the warden would also come down to interact with us. In these socalled interactions. he would confide with us about in the joys and sorrows of a soldier’s life, listen to the prisoners’ plight, and advise us to try to stay healthy and not do anything wrong so we wouldn’t have to listen to the rude cadres. He often said: – It hurts me very much when I see you have to listen to rude words. I know you are all educated people and have all been in command positions.
In winter, crops could not be grown, so the diet of a prisoner was only a piece of black bread the size of two fingers, or a half bowl of corn kernels. Partly due to insufficient food, and also because of unhygienic conditions, many prisoners contracted dysentery. Medications were out of the question, so the epidemic lasted a long time. Many people couldn’t stand steady. One late winter afternoon, there was a drizzle, fog covered the valley wher the prison camp stood, all of us prisoners sat huddled in the baarracks, trying to chew every grain of corn that was as hard as a pebble. Looking out at the field in front of us, we saw a man in a a raincoat made of leaves scurrying around until it was dark. That night, as usual, Mr. Tha went down to interact with us by the fireside. He told the captain: – I put a basket of fish in the back of the barracks. Before bedtime, bring it in and divide the fish among those f you with dysentery so they can get better. Remember to keep it private, don’t let anyone high up know. Only now did we find out that the person who hadrun around in the field that afternoon to catch fish was warden Tha. Everyone was touched.
Knowing that the prisoners were constantly hungry, especially after a long winter, one morning in early spring, warden Tha took our team of 50 prisoners to a hill planted with cassava belonging to some cooperative. It was early season, so the tubers were rather small. Tha showed us how to dig for tubers while keeping the cassava stem intact, and build a few “Hoang Cam” stoves to boil cassava without letting the smoke be detected. He led two prisoners down the hill to bring up two buckets of water and instructed us to take turns boiling cassava to eat. He personally stayed to stand guard, so if anyone happened to come by, he’d pretend to give the order “prepare to go home”, so we’d immediately hide all “evidence” in a hole dug in advance. It seemed that was the only day that the 50 of us prisoners had a full stomach – even if it was only full of cassava. We didn’t know that night how many hectares of forest did warden Tha report to the camp command during the “communication” time we had cleared. Every time when he saw the prisoners work hard, Mr. Tha would whisper: – Don’t you work too hard, take a break when you’re tired. Remember to take care of your health. The time for re-education ahead is still very long.
On an occasion of Tet holiday, instead of taking a leave of absence, he did not go home but stayed behind with us. With the salary he’d just received, he bought some cakes of water pipe tobacco, a few kilograms of peanut candies, and gave them to us to celebrate Tet. At that time, he confided a lot to us:
– When I was injured in 1972 in Kontum, I had thought I’d die. The wound was too severe, and I had to lie in the jungle alone, without food or water. In my most desperate moment, I was suddenly discovered by a unit of Division 23. Your people bandaged my wounds, fed me, and took care of me as if I were one of your own. The brothers took turns carrying me out of the jungle, calling an ambulance to take me to the hospital. It was dark, the plane could not land, so it turned around a few times, so the position was revealed. The brothers were shelled, but fortunately no one was injured. You had to rush to move elsewhere. The whole forest had only one rock crevice used as a safe haven, you guys gave it to me, and then dispersed thinly. I was cared for by two nurses all night. The commanding officer that day was a very young man, a lieutenant, and he gently inquired about me several times and advised me to bear the pain so I could be taken to the military hospital for treatment. He also gave me the remaining half of his pack of cigarettes, told me to smoke to forget the pain from the wound. Early the next morning, I was transported by an ambulance to the Pleiku military hospital. Here, although I had to be separated from the rest, I was well taken care of by your doctors. Everyone treated me as though I were one of you. Once, when a delegation came to visit the wounded soldiers, they also came by me, gave me gifts, and comforted me sincerely. As soon as the wound healed, I got the news of the prisoner swap.
When I departed, the hospital gave me many medications and also some supplies. My heart was filled with emotions. I choked at the humanity, the love for a fellowman that you guys showed me. I buried that feeling deep in my heart, not daring to confide to anyone, because my heart had always been thinking of my wife and children, and especially my elderly mother reaching the age of 80 who was waiting day and night for me to return. He tried to stay calm, but it was obvious that he was about to choke. – When you returned to the North, did people still trust you? – asked a prisoner. – As soon as I was returned, I had to throw away all the medicine and the things you guys gave me. I tried to hide some antibiotics to prevent infection in the future, but they searched so thoroughly that I had to find a way to throw them away. Before being sent to the North, we had to go through a learning period of more than a month, had to go through the past and condemn the cruel treatment by you. I was ashamed to say the opposite of the truth, but then it was the same with everyone, we can’t help it. That’s why my heart aches until today. The golden age of fifty prisoners in the 4th camp of camp 6/ Nghia Lo, Hoang Lien Son, lasted no more than six months.
Early one morning, when the fog was still hanging over the valley of the prison camp, a man on a bicycle hurriedly left the camp command. In the back of the bicycle was a wooden chest and a soldier’s backpack. Some of us recognized Tha and informed the rest. The whole squad of fifty prisoners, who had just woken up and were still drowsy, ran out into the yard, waving. Mr. Tha didn’t look back, raised his half arm and waved, then disappeared from the camp gate. *** The small boat carrying more than 30 people crossing the border, including me and three fellow prisoners in Nghia Lo previously, had reached international waters for two days when we encountered a storm. We were fortunate to be rescued by a Norwegian oil tanker on the way from Japan to Singapore. Two days and nights on the train hd been heavenly. From the captain to the sailors, the doctor, the nurse, all of them took care of us wholeheartedly. The day we left the ship to be transferred to the Singapore refugee camp, we were so emotional that no one could hold back our tears. All the crew stood in two long lines on the deck, crying and hugging each of us and saying goodbye. Then during the time staying in the camp, we were attended to by the teachers, and the Norwegian ambassador was always available to take care of us in all sorts of things.
We were both emotional and pained. The pain of a person who had just been tortured by his own fellowmen, chased to the end of the road, had to leave the country to escape death, and now was surrounded by strangers who do not speak the same language, have a different skin color and hair color, and yet have extended their kindness to embrace us. To return that benevolence, we decided to choose Norway as the country to spend the rest of our lives. The four of us, prisoners of Nghia Lo before, were arranged to live close to each other. Every time we saw one another reminded us of our miserable years in prison. Especially when it comes to warden Tha, each of us felt saddened, thinking of a person who was not on the same side but still retained a good heart. After being “downgraded” at Nghia Lo prison camp, we didn’t know what had become of him, except that he must have had a hard time. After two years of study, I was accepted to work in the central postal bank. Here, I became acquainted with Kenneth Hansen, a young colleague who lived close to my home, and became a close friend. He was still in school studying economics, and only worked part-time. After about a year, this Norwegian friend was accepted to work for a large company and was sent to its branch in India.
After a few years, one day he suddenly called to say that he would visit me and bring me a surprise. And it was a real surprise, because with him was a Vietnamese girl that he introduced as his fiancée. The girl, named Doan, speaks with a genuine Hanoi accent. Meeting us in a strange place, she was overjoyed, but when she saw my picture hanging on the wall wearing the uniform and rank of the ARVN army, she seemed ill at ease. Sensing that, we showed our hospitality and made jokes for her to feel at home. She said she was a close friend of singer Ai Van since the two were in the same class in Hanoi. After six years studying in East Germany, then in the Soviet Union, she was given an internship in India. It was here that she had the opportunity to meet and get to know this Norwegian boy. At that time she had had a husband and a son. He had studied abroad in the Soviet Union with her, and later became a senior officer in the oil and gas industry in Hanoi. After returning from the internship in India, she was told by friends and relatives that her husband had been with another girl just a few weeks after her departure. She discussed this matter to her husband, and was assaulted and insulted by him. She was both sad and angry, left her husband, and applied for a PhD program at a university in East Germany.
After the infamous Berlin Wall was demolished by the German people, the People’s Republic of Germany (East Germany) suddenly ceased to exist. She did not return home, but tried to escape to West Germany. Going through a very difficult time, she was fortunate to be able to meet Kenneth Hansen and sponsored to go to Norway. I knew she belonged to the family of a senior communist member, because she had studied abroad in many countries of the former communist bloc, but I didn’t inquire because I was afraid she would be uncomfortable. Later, Kenneth Hansen himself told me that her father was formerly the Vietnamese ambassador to the former Soviet Union. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, followed by the breakup of the entire communist bloc in Eastern Europe, he sadly realized something. Returning to Vietnam, he was no longer used by the Communist government, became a disgruntled man, and stayed at home all the time and refused to speak to anyone.
After being granted Norwegian citizenship, Ms. Doan returned to Vietnam to visit her family, especially her elderly father who was seriously ill, and took the opportunity to bring her son to Norway. Doan’s return to Hanoi made me think of the old warden Nguyen Van Tha. We old inmates collected an amount of about 800 dollars and asked Ms. Doan to go to Nghe Tinh to find him and give him the money as a token of gratitude to a person who could still keep a golden heart, being forced to live in the mud for so many years.
Finding him wasn’t easy, as we didn’t know much about him. The information we provided contained only a few words: “Mr. Nguyen Van Tha, originally from Nghe Tinh, circa 1979 was a senior lieutenant, worked as a warden of the re-education camp at No. 6/ Nghia Lo, Hoang Lien Son” Ms. Doan happily accepted the request and promised to find ways to meet or contact Mr. Tha. She also said that she has a cousin who works at the Defense Ministry. She would ask him to find the man for her.
A month later, Ms. Doan returned to Norway, informing us that her uncle could not find Nguyen Van Tha’s name on the roster of officers. He guessed he’d been serving too long ago. She had personally gone to Nghe Tinh and asked every government agency but no one knew. In the end, she had to pay a few local newspapers to publish a text message with my phone number on it. She said that as she was in Nghe Tinh anyway, she utilized that communication channel without much hope, because only a few people in the city have newspapers to read. As time went on, we were busy with many things, taking care of our children so they can quickly integrate into the new life in our new homeland, we no longer thought of Mr. Tha.
Suddenly, one day, while I was in my sound sleep, I heard the phone ring, and I was startled awake. Checking the clock, it was past two o’clock in the morning. In Nordic winter, the temperature outside the window showed -20 degrees Celsius. I felt concerned. If anyone called at this hour, it must be something urgent.
I picked up the receiver. On the other end was a girl’s voice, speaking Vietnamese with a very hard accent. She seemed rushed, but was very polite, asking to see me. She carefully repeated my name twice, complete with full first and last name. – Excuse me, who are you and where are you? I ask. – Yes, I’m Ha, Nguyen Thi Ha, I’m in Poland. I was silent. I rummaged through my mind, but I couldn’t remember who I met by the name of Ha. On the other end of the line, the girl said: – Do you still remember Mr. Tha, working as a warden in Nghia Lo? – Mr. Tha, Nguyen Van Tha, Oh I remember now, but how are you related to Mr. Tha, and why are you in Poland? – Mr. Tha is my father. I’m now in Poland with my younger brother. We are in trouble Uncle. The girl was sobbing. – I’ll give you my phone number, I’ll call you back right away, so you don’t waste money.
I called back and heard the girl’s heartbreaking story. She and her younger brother, named Tinh, were sent to work as labor in Poland, after their parents had sold all their belongings in the house, including a Chinese made bicycle that her father had cherished as heirloom, and some more borrowed money to pay the bribe. After the Polish communist government was swept away by the wave of democracy in Eastern Europe, like most of the people sent by the Vietnamese government as labor, they did not return to the country but stayed hiding behind. Because of their illegal status, they couldn’t find regular work. Most of them went underground and traded in smuggled cigarettes. Some became thieves and gangsters, looting or blackmailing their own fellowmen. These Vietnamese became a big concern for the new governments in Eastern European countries. Ha and her brother had rented a small attic in the city of Warsaw, received cigarettes from another person and peddled them. But each time they could save some money and send home to help the family, it was robbed. One day, while receiving the cigarettes, the younger brother was arrested by the police, and it was discovered that the cigarettes had just been stolen from a Polish shop. He was locked up in prison, and Ms. Ha was on the wanted list. This happened just the day before Ha called me on the phone. – Where are you now? I asked. – I’m in hiding at a friend’s house, but she can’t keep me long. I didn’t know what to do, but suddenly remembered the letter my father sent me a few months ago. My father told me to call you only in case of emergency. – What does your father do now? – He has been seriously ill. Two years ago, he had a stroke and was paralyzed on one side of his body, so he just lay in one place. That’s why my brother and I had tried to earn money so we could send back to our father for treatment and day-to-day living. I wrote down the phone number, address of Ha’s friend, the name of the prison where Tinh was being held, reassured her and promised to meet her soon in Poland.
I remembered a Polish friend named Zbigniew Piwko. We had become close friends when we both just arrived in Norway. He was three years older than me. Formerly an air force colonel, he commanded a combat squadron of the Polish Communist Army. Later, he tacitly supported Solidarity led by Mr. Walesa. His whereabouts were revealed, and being on the wanted list, he took a helicopter and flew his family, including his wife and two children, to West Germany. At his request, his family was granted special political asylum by the Norwegian government. He and I had been in the same class learning Norwegian, and then for a time we had worked as interpreters for the Police Department.
But just over a year later, the political situation in Poland changed dramatically. Mr. Walesa’s Solidarity Labor Party had won a great victory. He was elected as the first President of democratic Poland. My refugee friend Piwko was called back home to take on an important position in the police force. On Christmas occasions, remembering me, he’d send Christmas and New Year greeting cards. He told me all kinds of stories about his country, about the joys and hopes of the Polish people now. There wasn’t enough space in the cards, so he always attached a few sheets of paper along. He invited my wife and me when the time was right to spend a few days with his family and watch his country Poland revive in democracy.
The next morning, I found his phone number and called him. He was very happy upon hearing that I’d visit him. Because I was in a hurry, I went alone. He and his wife picked me up at the airport in a room reserved for VIPs. They also said that it was fun to have the opportunity to speak Norwegian with me again. I was really touched by the warm welcome his family gave me. I was too apprehensive about what I’d wanted to ask for his help. But in the end, I had to confide in him about the case of warden Tha in Nghia Lo prison camp and the plight of his two children, who are now right in his own country. Hearing my story, he hesitated for a moment, then stood up and hugged my shoulders, promising to wholeheartedly help me in this matter.
He took me to meet Ha and her brother, and took Ha home to live with his family. Two days later, he completed the procedures to take Tinh out of prison. Before returning to Norway, I stayed up all night to advise Ha and her brother, and gave them some money for temporary expenses before moving back to Vietnam to their father. On the way taking me to the airport, Piwko and hiswife told me to rest assured, they consider Ha and her brother as children in the family and will wholeheartedly take care of them. More than a month later, Piwko called to tell me the good news: Ha and her brother had been sponsored by Piwko and were granted official residence permits in Poland. The children are learning Polish. Because of her age, Ha will apply for a job. Tinh will be given the opportunity to attend a high school.
***
“My beloved and treasured brothers, When I sit down to write these lines to you, I honestly can’t recall your faces, but I remember very clearly the time when I worked as a warden at Nghia Lo camp. But I never thought you’d still remember me. Reading Ha’s letter from Poland along with the money you sent, my heart was filled with emotions. Me and my family would like to thank you so much. You made me remember a saying by Carl Marx: “Only animals turn their backs on the plight of their fellows”. Today, the whole world condemns Marx, the countries that once used Marxism as a torch light to guide the way have now also abandoned him, except for a few places that still use him as a screen to cover up the corruption on the inside. But his above mentioned phrase to me is forever a golden maxim. The terrible thing is that those who once followed Marx have always done the opposite of this pronouncement. We’re glad you got your family out of the country, even though I know what pain a person has to bear leaving his homeland. Even in case of our children, no matter how hard it is, I have to advise them to leave so that maybe they can find some future, some value of human life. As for me, after being criticized in the camp of Nghia Lo, I was sent to the Northern front during the period of Chinese invasion across the border. Thanks to my injury, I was assigned odd jobs in logistics. When the war ended, I was sent home, with an allowance so small it was not enough to support myself. With only one arm left, I still had to clear the land and grow vegetables to support my family– For more than three years now, I have been seriously ill, and bedridden. Thanks to Ha and her brother sending money to support us, I am still alive today. I know hard it is to stay in Poland without papers, but it is still better than coming back here. Even working all day, you’d not earn enough to feed yourself. Fortunately, you have wholehearted helped the children. We will never be able to repay this debt. I know I don’t have much more time to live. At the end of this life, I’ve come to realize one thing: Only the human love for each other is truly precious and will last forever. The regimes and ideologies in the end are just dark clouds flowing overhead. Sometimes they can cover a little sun, but most times they have poured down so much flood water to make the world miserable…”
We never thought this first letter was also the last one we received from Mr. Tha. He passed away not long after hearing from Ha. Upon his deathbed, he asked his wife to bring the medals he had received during the war, dig a hole to bury them all in the back of the house. He whispered: please bury that painful and mistaken past for me. It has caused so much separation, so much mourning, and so much hatred among brothers of the same mother, and I don’t know how long it will last.
