ÔNG NGOẠI BY CHÚ HƯNG

ÔNG NGOẠI BY CHÚ HƯNG
Translated by bác Thanh


For my son Ti Oui, Doãn Quốc Sỹ Tâm.

I gave you the name Doãn Quốc Sỹ Tâm, meaning The Heart of Doãn Quốc Sỹ, your grand-father.  Why so? Because I wanted to remind you of the importance of the HEART in our family’s tradition.  No one knows when it took root, but your Grandpa has become the epitome of it.  When you grow up, you’ll be able to read all Grandpa’s works.  You’ll have the chance to see reviews written by literary authorities on him.  You’ll get to know Doãn-Quốc-Sỹ-The-Writer, Doãn-Quốc- Sỹ-The-Teacher…  That’s your Grandpa in society, among the Vietnamese Community.  In this text, I wanted to show you another Grandpa, the Doãn Quốc Sỹ of our family.

When I was a young kid (before 1975, before the Communist take-over), my memory of a writer-father didn’t amount to much.  All I could remember was most of Dad’s friends visiting us were all artists of some sort.  From time to time I saw mum setting up dinner in the formal dining room (we family had our meals in the eat-in kitchen).  I had a peep from the inner room, and heard about names like Mai Thảo, Thanh Tâm Tuyền (famous writer, famous poet)…  One day, Mum said the songwriter Phạm Đình Chương of the celebrated “A Toast to Spring” was coming for dinner.  Another time, the journalist and poet Minh Đức Hoài Trinh shared a meal with us right in the kitchen. I found her so beautiful, so elegant and cosmopolitan.  I listened rapturously about her travels around the world as correspondent for a news agency – such a beautiful dream for an adventure loving kid like me.  

Painter artists, we had names like Duy Thanh, Ngọc Dũng.  In the 1970’s, artist Võ Đình came from USA, and stayed with us for some time.  One afternoon he bought black and red paint, and started to paint over our family ancestor altar. He then used a screwdriver to sketch on the altar sixteen panels, making out sixteen original paintings with his signature on.  He half seriously half jokingly told us if we were in need, just dismantle and sell them, they would fetch quite a fortune!

After 1975, memories of Dad-The-Writer would not be so peaceful, for being one during that time meant going to jail anytime.  This was how Mum recalled the time Dad started to write again after his first bout in communist prison:  Dad nurtured his brain child exactly like a pregnant woman would nurture her baby, so Mum recognised all the signs.  Dad was always a light eater, he ate even less then.  He was in deep thought all day, then from time to time started to jot down on paper.  Then came the writing period: he wrote days and nights non stop.  Then he started to read out for my sister to type on the typewriter.  Mum was frantic.  The sound of typewriting going through the night pushed her to nag Dad and complain to us children.  It was 1984, all paper work was done for Mum and Dad to join my eldest sister in Australia – it was only a matter of days and they would be out of this miserable country – and Dad was doing this silly thing!  Mum was so right:  a very kind neighbour discreetly warned us that members of the Secret Police had been around watching our family.

At dawn on the 2nd of May that year, they swooped down on us for the second time, wrecked our place from top to bottom, then took Dad with them at 6 am.  I remembered well that morning, ten undercover men framing Dad to their cars, with the whole neighbourhood looking on. Cars in a small lane were an unusual sight.  Our house was at the end of it, Dad was arrested for the second time, under curious and sympathetic eyes of neighbours.
Mum had to endure eight more years of visiting and feeding Dad in detention – just because she could not persuade him to choose a safer way of living.  As with all mothers, family and children were her first priorities. 

But not everyone thought the same.  When Dad’s literary friends overseas heard he was about to migrate to Australia, some wrote to him, subtly begging him not to.  Of course staying was extremely dangerous, but the communists had shut out Vietnam from the outside world.  Without people like Dad, who would be the life line behind that steel curtain?  Never a time a writer’s responsibility was so crucial, so needed:  “a conscience in need, is a conscience indeed”.  Dad totally agreed with that line of thought.  More than once, Dad has said being a writer is not a job but a destiny.  You can give up your job but never your destiny! If he were to go to the Free World, who would speak up about the sufferings, the plight of the Vietnamese people at that time?  Perhaps his conscience as well as his passion as a writer could not ignore that call.  Well, if such is your destiny…

Going back to Doãn-Quốc-Sỹ- The-Family-Man, no few people has asked how could Dad find time to care for his family of eight children, being writer and lecturer at the same time?  Our generation ask the same question to all dads of his generation.  I am now a father of two.  With only two kids, but my wife and I are so stressed out.  How could Dad write, prepare his lectures for university, and raise us up too?  Was there a principle, a system to lean on? such as “self reliance” for example? or was it a case of “God creates, God provides”?  We all know Mum was in charge of the smooth running of the family – but Dad is definitely the one who shaped our character, our personality.

Looking back at our family history in search for such a system, I found so many funny little things.  We had an uncle, a very wealthy business man.  Uncle Kiệm was Dad’s adviser, had his say in all our family’s decisions.  Our names, the children of a letter man, were chosen by him!  More than once we’ve been told our names are so ordinary!  He decided which brand our washing machine would be, how many levels our house should be extended.  Whatever achievements in study we got, were rewarded by him.  I remembered whenever I got a merit award, I showed it to him for some money reward, to treat myself to some sweets, some soft drink…  He popped champagne when my sister got high score at her school graduation.   But the education centre for the whole family clan was at our place.  Uncle Kiệm’s children were sent to study with us during weekdays, and went home on weekends.  After 1975, the first piano bought by the combined savings of Mum and Aunty Quý was placed in our lounge.  Ngọc, my Aunty’s daughter spent days and nights at our place for her school and music study.  Wealth was frowned upon under communist rule, no family would dare to indulge in such luxury as piano playing.

I liked to explain a little more about our big extended family.  My grandfather’s two children, Dad and Aunty Quý made the exodus to South Vietnam in 1954 (Vietnam was split into Communist North and Capitalist South at that time).  Grandpa Tư, my mother’s uncle, joined in, and was living in Gò Vấp district.  Uncle Kiệm had settled in Saigon since 1942, living in Khánh Hội district.  They made up our extended family circle.  Every decision, every event was shared.  Every weekend we longed for them to visit us, or us them.  All ơur good or bad behaviour were duly reported.  Perhaps raising us were a shared task between families – Mum and Dad were given several helping hands.
On New Year Day, Aunty Quý’s family came to us first, then we headed to Uncle Kiệm’s.  Then all three families would go to Grandpa Tư to present our New Year greetings.  Uncle Kiệm’s car was the biggest and sleekest, an American Chevrolet.  Aunty Quý drove a small sedan, fit for a family of four.  The eight of us were packed at the back of Dad’s Daihatsu van.  It was Dad’s utility car, to ferry his kids and his books.  Adults were wearing suits and traditional áo dài, children in their new clothes, sometimes funny uniforms like the Dalton Brothers in comic strips!  We were such a noisy and boisterous bunch!

The image of such long family procession winding its way on New Year Day never faded in me.
It is the symbol of love and support between members of traditional Vietnamese families.  Perhaps the hardship of starting new life in South Vietnam demanded us to lean on each other so much.  But I noticed with the second exodus overseas after 1975, situations were more difficult, but such bond and unity weren’t as strong.

The way Dad divided his time for family, university and writing was no secret, sometimes it was illogical at best.  For example, some afternoons Dad would ask if we like to go out?  Of course we did!  Dad would drive us to a nearby park to frolic to our content while he sat in the car, happily scrawled away on paper.  We had to remind him time to go home.  Later I guessed that’s when he wrote his books.  In the same way, at the tender age of ten I had to sit at the back of Van Hanh University classroom full of students, while Dad was going through his lectures. Then some other times, while taking us to sports or to music lessons, Dad did his book round as well.  We sat among hundreds of books Dad had to take to various bookshops and libraries.  Sometimes we had to wait half an hour in the car – it was such a bore, we sulked a lot…  Dad had to placate us with some sort of compensation…

I still remembered while in second grade, the teacher required us to have a set of card numbers and a board with two pockets.  When she asked some math questions, we had to quickly stick the answer on the cardboard.  I was always very clumsy, so no way I could do it myself.  All tears, I asked Dad for help.  Dad was no better than me actually, but after a whole evening of cutting and pasting, I got my numbers set.  The next day in class, I realised mine was the worse looking of all.  But who cared?  I appreciated the fact that Dad did it for me.  Besides, it was only a tool for your study…  Now that I am a father too, I realise not all parents are willing to spend time with their kids, to do trivial things for them.  Fathers especially have all handy excuses to exempt themselves if they don’t enjoy doing it.

How did Dad raise and shape us?  I couldn’t remember a set of rules or disciplines he had set upon us.  I’ve got a friend whose father was army officer – in his family you did what you were told, you ate up whatever was in front of you.  I also knew of a father teacher - if you scored under the top five in your class exams, you were sure to get a beating. We had none of those in our family, so the eight of us grew up freely, totally different from each other.  My sister was an outstanding student during her university days, but she had to repeat one year in primary.  My brother was severely berated by Uncle Kiệm during high school for his long hair and association with bad friends:  “If he were my son, I would give him a good lashing…”  In spite of all this, the eight of us ended up, if not highly successful in life, to be totally decent people.  Mum and Dad said it was due to our ancestors’ blessings.  I believed it.  But that didn’t explain the fact, despite our difference in character and opinion, we all put heavy importance in matter of the Heart.  We all knew it was Dad’s influence, but how and when?

Lessons about ethics, altruism, Zen Buddhism… Dad only gave us systematically since 1980, after his first time in communist prison.  He gave lectures to us and a group of close friends in what we called “pocket university”, where he explained what he wrote in his books.  It was then that our third family circle formed.  Called “The Minstrels Family”, members were our family, relatives and friends.  Big brother Lộc, sister Huệ, sister and brother Châu, we only met after 1975 but we were as close as blood kin.  We had the same code of ethics that refuted the brutality and heartlessness of the present communist regime.  The idea of this family was actually Brother Lộc’s in 1978, but only really worked when Dad was back home, at the helm and heart of it.  We had unforgettable and wonderful time doing futile and unpractical activities like learning about Buddhism, the art of flower arranging, how to compose a piece of music…  We organised family concerts, wrote and set up our own plays… Our good time lasted only for 5 years. The Minstrels Family disbanded when Dad was arrested for the second time.  In 1988, in the allegations read in court, sentencing Dad to nine years in prison, there was an accusation of “organising the so called Minstrels Family for illegal gathering to promote immoral, reactionary music…”

It was much longer after that I realised the influence of The Minstrels Family was much deeper than thought.  It was not only where we spent our leisure time – members considered it a haven, a source of strength to build up our happiness.  I myself, I have learned a lot from Dad and Brother Lộc, to form my own view in life, about ethics, about how to interact with my fellow-humans.  This formed the baggage I’ll carry, the compass I’ll follow till the end of my life.

We had a friend who joined us for two years.  Fifteen years later, T. was CEO of the most successful home-decorating firm in Saigon, with turnovers exceeding millions of US dollars.  He was one of the very few successful businessmen who made it by his own ingenuity and strength, without any favouritism from the communist government.  It was big surprise when he referred the Minstrels Family as an important milestone of his life, the making of who he is today.  Surprise, for we thought he considered us as a place for relaxing, and his successes had nothing to do with us.
Another friend, K., one of the most celebrated art directors of Saigon – rich in talents, poor in wealth, because his motto was Art for Art, and refused to commercialise his work.  K. attended one of our flower-arranging sessions and one of our concerts during autumn 1981.  Later, when his fame was made, K. recalled of being overwhelmed by such high standard performance, despite the fact he was student of professional performing arts school.  He never expected us to have such high arty activities during such miserable time, when basic needs like food was more important than any spiritual needs.
If it were only to pass time, our Minstrels Family would not be so esteemed.  It was not our idea to defy the present government – for everybody knew such activities would be considered high treason and deemed to go to prison.  In a passive way, our activities could be considered as self-preservation against the totalitarian, one-way ideologist culture of the communist government at that time.  But it was also a non-violent rebellion against oppression, by intellectuals like my Dad and Brother Lộc.

Talking about rebellion, people spoke of my father’s “indomitable spirit versus oppression” or “(he is) the symbol of  Free South Vietnam against Communism”.  The communist government labelled him as ringleader of a “Special Force Writers Squad”, with deep hatred for Communism.  I also heard, from Dad’s friends in prison, anecdotes of his “heroic confrontation with communist cadres”, “his high spirited and lashing replies to his ‘enemy’ “… I never knew what truly happened.   Dad never actually retold to us any.  I have heard Uncle Duy Trác (well-known lawyer, singer and writer) tell us how in prison, he led the whole camp for some basic requests during one Christmas.  Put in solitary cell after, he had to plead in such a way as to keep his points and self-respect without being prosecuted.  And Uncle Phan Nhật Nam (army officer, writer and war correspondent) talked about his endless time in re-education camp, and his endless battle of words with communist wardens – which he said would make atrocities in the Nobel prized “Gulags Archipelago” seem like child play.

During Dad’s time in prison, one of the most memorable moment to me is my one thousand kilometre trip to Camp Gia Lai in 1978 to visit him.  Everybody remembered it was the most miserable time we had since after 1975.  People everywhere were starving, let alone the ones in prison.  For the life of me, I could not remember what Mum had packed for Dad that day.  A pittance really, nothing worth remembering: a small container of dried salty meat, a few packets of cereal…A seven day trip just to see Dad for fifteen minutes.  I arrived at the camp in the afternoon of the second day.  I had to stay overnight, for visiting hours were only allowed in the morning.  Next day, other visitors and I stood in the reception hut, waiting for our loved ones to come up from their cells. It was impossible to explain my feelings at that moment.  Our meeting was so short, we only had time to exchange crucial news:  Dad’s health, what happened to us at home… After that, the jail warden inspected what was given to Dad in the wicker basket.  He decided to reject one packet.  I could not remember the reason why, for there were pitifully few things.  Perhaps it was out of pettiness, out of an unspoken rule to reject at least one item from each person.  My reaction was utter shock by the injustice, but refused to beg for it. I thought Dad would do the same, the indomitable writer Doãn Quốc Sỹ obviously would do the same.  Surprise:  very politely, Dad explained to the warden I came such a long way, and the total number of packets was insignificant, could he please allow the rejected one to pass?  He refused.  I had to take it back, a burden in the heart more than in the hands.  On the way home, I was asking myself on an on, was Dad doing right?  In a sixteen year old mind full of idealistic aspirations, never knowing real starvation and real life experience, I had expected from my father action of heroes in books!

The day my father appeared in court with other fellow-writers (Hoàng Hải Thủy, Duy Trác, Lý Thụy Ý …) in 1988 – a special sitting to condemn “Doãn Quốc Sỹ and his followers, traitors to the People Republic of Vietnam”.  It was my first time in a communist court room.  Sentences were passed according to communist class criteria, not to any set of laws or any logical reasoning.  The woman magistrate on that day, armed with her “class ideology”, struggled hard to impose her power and lead the audience to the pre-concluded sentence.  To me, she could not control all the circumstances that turn this one-way hearing into a totally contrary conclusion.

During his defence, Uncle Hoàng Hải Thủy refuted that Dad was the leader and other defendants were followers.  Artists and writers in the Free South were independent and free thinkers, no one could lead or influence anyone. Then he explained whatever he wrote and sneaked out overseas were all truths – truths that have been written and propagated at this very moment by government paid writers.  He then concluded:  “We are only guilty of speaking up too soon!”  The audience – mostly relatives of defendants – couldn’t help but stood up and gave a rousing applause!  The poor woman magistrate had to bang hard on her gavel and to ask the armed police to maintain order.  Then Uncle Duy Trác, former lawyer, gave a systematic and convincing defence to all accused, citing international statutes that even the People Republic of Vietnam’s government had recognised and accepted.  The magistrate could not refute any of those reasoning.  She could only stubbornly stick to her previous accusations.  My point was, my father’s pleading was the least eloquent.  Uncle Thủy was totally right by insisting Dad’s was not the leader.  Whoever wanted to see in this court an eloquent and heroic Doãn Quốc Sỹ would be disappointed.


Seeing these helped me adjust the veracity of those legendary epic stories about Dad.  Dad never retold his fight with the enemy, maybe because he was never a fighter.  Maybe because he never had a real person as enemy.  In one of his story about his days in prison, he talked of the jail warden as someone you felt sorry for – he was far away from home just like his prisoners.  And like them, every spring time, every New Year coming, he longed to be home with his family…  Dad’s hatred was for the inhuman ideology, the stupidity and heartlessness of the government.  Dad pitied all followers of that regime – they were only blinded victims, not knowing and lacking in choices.  I never know him to hate his guts someone.   Whatever the circumstance, he always found a way to understand and forgive.  That’s why Dad was more of a teacher than a writer.  In family as in social life, Dad was the very image of a teacher and a practicing Buddhist. This was more apparent in recent years, when Dad was less active, paying less attention to social and political events, enjoying family and grandchildren.  He became quite forgetful and quiet.  But when his ex-colleagues and students called on, he became alive and full of wit. Beside us, perhaps they were the next family closest to his heart: the Teachers Family.  With this fourth family, I learned a lot about respect and responsibility, even though I was never a student of Uncle Linh, Uncle Bửu – Dad’s colleagues – or of Brother Tín, Brother Khuê – Dad’s students and teachers too in their own time.  I remembered well, whenever it was time to visit Dad in prison, they came to us.  They inquired about Dad’s health, then gave us a present for Dad, or just a small sum of money to help us providing him.  We received a lot of that kind of help, but it was the way it was presented by this Teachers Family that impressed me much.  Whoever the recipient, either my Mum or one of my sisters, they all stood up respectfully, presented the gift, with best wishes to Dad’s health and quick release.  Teachers and students alike were all grey haired.  Some were never allowed to teach again (communists used their own cadres).  In a time where self respect, integrity and responsibility were blown away – the Department of Education allowing students to openly criticise their teachers - tears welled up whenever I thought of them.  To me, they represented the standard education of a generation before 1975.  There were times when I saw Uncle Linh and Dad having coffee at a tiny café on a corner of Saigon Teachers College, and believed I recognised them as teachers among crowds in the street.  Their countenance, their behaviour marked them as such, not the actual fact of standing in a lecture room.  And their students had the same attitude.  I’ve been to several of their meetings, the ambience was a bit nostalgic, a bit upright, a slight bitterness and wry humour at the changing society…  Things I never found in the next generation.  Things that I totally empathised with, so I considered myself as belonging to that past generation…

Changing my look of Dad, seeing him as a kind and composed teacher and a practising Buddhist, instead of a writer, a symbol of anti-communist spirit, made me understand the way Dad educated us, the way he inspired other people in life, the way he became the Doãn Quốc Sỹ of the present day Vietnamese Community outside Vietnam.

Dad is a kind teacher, a loving person, because that’s the essence of him.  But his strength comes from his HEART.  When this LOVING MIND knows where it came from, where it is heading to, it becomes utterly fearless – and free.  Its strength glows on its own, without need to prove and express itself.

Dad taught us to practise yoga for our good health, mental and physical.  He practised everyday.  I know he never aimed for some outreach goals like “enlightenment” or “salvation”.  He just liked the simple way of Reverend Thích Nhất Hạnh in his book “The Miracle of Awareness”.  By starting to be really aware of your own existence, you acquire a small amount of happiness.  When your heart is at peace, spiritual awareness will come without trouble. 

Dad was ever reminding us to let go in life. Letting go was the source of many haves in his life, giving him a free and irrepressible spirit.  His HUMAN SPIRIT glows, simple and quiet.  There was never a “me” in his books, but his heart and mind are seen everywhere.  Relatives and friends always said how he lived a loving and virtuous life, never how he talked about love and virtues in his works.  Uncle Nguyễn Đình Toàn (writer and poet) once said:  “In artists circle, no one ever admires anyone’s talent.  But everyone respect your father for the way he leads his life.”  So I guess Dad brought us up by living his exemplary life, not by any educational system.  Just like Reverend Thích Nhất Hạnh used to say:  when a Buddha was born, the grass is greener, the air is purer.  Dad is no Buddha, but his loving mind touches us all.

When a Loving Mind is at war with a brutal and heartless force that seeks to destroy it, it never fights to win.  Dad is exactly that loving and peaceful spirit.  The communist regime could not repress it, because it just IS, totally free, fearless and immovable.  No noisy confrontation, just quiet strength and confidence. 

When Dad was to appear in court for the second time in 1988, protests all over the world by organisations such as Amnesty International, Human Watch, Free Vietnamese Communities… were so strong, the communist government had to defer the sitting and try to find ways to alleviate the situation.  To save face, they sent my father’s own brother, a high ranking communist officer, to see him in jail and to suggest he should show some remorse to get a more lenient sentence.  Of course the negotiation failed, they utterly underestimated my father.  What so extraordinary was Dad’s placid attitude. In communist propaganda, relishing the clash between classes, such event would become “a sensational example of a hero, the merciless battle of ideologies between two blood brothers in opposite fronts…”  The only time my father mentioned it was at my asking, wanting to know what really happened.  “Nothing extraordinary…  Your uncle asked me to express some repentance – like when you hit someone you are bound to show some sort of contrition.  But I did nothing to feel sorry about, so I just refused …” That was all he said.  Which reminded me of a Zen metaphor Dad used a lot: a lake as calm and clear as a mirror - a bird flew across, it reflected its image; the bird gone, the lake is as calm and clear as ever, undisturbed…

My father’s forgiving and letting go Heart had helped him overcome the odds in his turbulent life.  Now it helped him out of regrets and sadness of old age.  At the age of eighty, Dad lets the past go, the strife of life, the love and hate… He is now Dan and Vịt’s grandpa in that house in Houston.  He is the eager reader of those same books he wrote so long ago – he read them as rapturously as he never was the author…  He would be Writer Doãn Quốc Sỹ again whenever the Vietnamese Community would invite him to one of their cultural events.  Then the lake would be as calm and clear as ever…

I love the lyrics of Phạm Duy’s song “Ballad”:

“… I flung away all earthy troubles,
I flew up to my celestial dreams.
But if you called my name,
I would return to you, my love…”

Uncle Phạm Duy and my father are of those few who lived and witnessed the upheavals of sixty years of Vietnam history: the Struggle of Independence against the French; the Secession of Communist North and Free South and the First Exodus; the Civil War between North and South; the Fall of Saigon in 1975 and the subsequent dark and miserable life under communist rule; the Second Exodus and the birth of Vietnamese Refugee Communities all over the free world.  These expatriates are as much an undeniable part of today’s Vietnam as the rest of the population that never left.  This special generation had laughed and cried with the fate of Vietnam, and is now ready to forgive and let go to meet Eternity.  Except that Uncle Phạm Duy is a true artist – his love of life and man is so passionate we feel he is still looking back wistfully…  

But my father…

The River of your Destiny is reaching now the open sea, no more bends or curves to linger on, are there not, Dad?


Sỹ Tâm, my beloved son, I wanted to write about the Grandpa of our family.  And as you see, we end up having four more families to share and love him with. When you take off  the barrier between yourself and the world, your heart will open wide.  Your love will be so much more encompassing. Like it or not, Grandpa is not ours alone.  He is common property of the entire Vietnamese Community – just because of his Heart.  If you have to sum up his life, his Heart takes the most important part in it.

You know, writing about the heart core of someone is the most difficult thing, especially someone as famous as Grandpa, because me too I’m in search of my own.  But I did it easily enough, for there is no ego, no “me” in Grandpa’s mind.  His Heart is the all embracing heart of humanity, of the selfless souls questing for it.  This Heart is already in me, and in you when you were born.  I wrote about his, in my search for mine. I wrote these lines for you, for when you grow up, you will realise you have in your hand such an overwhelming inheritance.  It will be your luggage and at the same time the very objective of your life…



April 2002

Your father Hưng