My Great Escape
by Guest Writer Jessica Bliss
The following story is written by guest writer, Jessica Bliss, born Le Thanh Tâm, in Quy Nhon, Vietnam in 1974. She was one year old when the emergency evacuation to Saigon began. Her family escaped only to return home without her father.
In “My Great Escape,” Jessica tells the harrowing tale of how her family survived against all odds after enduring seventeen days at sea, Her family settled in Cedar Rapids to start a new life in America.
Jessica graduated from the University of Iowa and lives in Bloomington/Normal, Illinois with her husband, Ryan. She has two sons, Ian and Jason. Jessica works with Ryan at his graphic art business, Digital Blasphemy. She is also a substitute teacher at her son’s high school. A few years ago, a Social Studies teacher at the school asked her to come and talk to his class about the Vietnam War. She wrote this story to share with his U.S. History class.
This is Part Two of a series. Part One is Jessica’s biography, entitled, “From the Coast of Vietnam to Cedar Rapids: Jessica’s Story.”
My Great Escape
by Jessica Bliss
Imagine your world without phones or TVs. Your form of communication is either by handwritten mail, radio, or in person. Your mode of transportation is by walking, bicycle, or moped. Only the military or super-wealthy people have cars or landline phones. This was the world my family and I lived in, in 1975.
I was born in 1974 in Qui Nhon, Vietnam. It’s located in the Southern part of the Central Coast of Vietnam. I’m the youngest of seven kids. My dad was the captain of his Army unit. He was in charge of Intelligence gathering. When the order came through the U.S. was pulling out of Vietnam, and my dad and his unit were ordered to oversee the Emergency Evacuation to Saigon. Thousands of people grabbed whatever they could carry and fled south to avoid the Communist forces sweeping from the North one city at a time. The people ran in fear of losing their lives and freedom. If you were wearing any type of military uniform, you were automatically shot down. Bombs and gunfire were everywhere. There were dead and injured bodies everywhere along the roads. This was the chaos of fleeing the front line of war.
The news came over the radio that our city was next. My mom was waiting for my dad to come back before she could flee the city. All the banks had shut down and we did not have access to most of our money. Luckily, my dad sent one of his men in a jeep to help my mom, brothers, sister, and I pack up and flee south to Cam Ranh. A week later, my dad disguised himself as a civilian and met up with us in Cam Ranh. We bought passage on a ship to take us into Saigon where we would be processed to immigrate to the U.S.
Unfortunately, our family was separated while being transported from a rowboat to a bigger ship. At the time, I was one year old. My mom, three other siblings, and I made it onto the big ship safely, but my dad and three oldest siblings were on a different rowboat that was being fired upon. Their boat sank, but they all swam to shore safely.
My mom, three siblings, and I made it to Saigon unharmed, but she did not want to flee the country without knowing what happened to her husband and oldest three kids. Two weeks later, my dad and older siblings made it to Saigon safely and were able to find us through a church that was set up as a shelter for refugees. By this time, the U.S. had abandoned Vietnam and the Communist Party had taken over completely.
My parents decided to go back to Cam Ranh to start a new life. It was a coastal town, and they were familiar with it. We traveled back there and tried to settle down but within a month, we realized that the communists were rounding up ex-soldiers like my dad and sending them to “re-education” camps. We decided it was safer to go back to our old home in Quy Nhon to be near relatives. When we got there, our home had been taken over by a communist family. My dad was taken into custody as a prisoner of war (POW) and sent to a “re-education” camp deep in the jungle, far from our home.
My mom, siblings and I were forced out of the city. We ended up on an island off Qui Nhon. It was undeveloped land that had belonged to my ancestors. We survived by farming rice and selling it. Meanwhile, my dad was being tortured for information in his “re-education” camp. He performed hard labor during the day by clearing the jungle for farming. He was fed a small amount of taro root dipped in two tablespoons of salty water. That was his meal every day! After 6 years of captivity, in May of 1981, my dad was released without our knowledge. They warned him that if he even thought about fleeing the country, he would go back to the camp for another twelve years. He made his way home walking and hitch riding in three days, and I was able to officially meet my dad again at the age of seven. I was only a baby when he was taken away.
During the time my dad was away, my mom had been helping organize escape trips for people she knew. She was in the process of organizing one for our family to leave with or without my dad right before he was released.
We finally escaped from Vietnam on June 1, 1982. I was eight years old at the time. It was a dangerous journey that took us 17 days with 27 people on a fishing boat. My mom had made business arrangements with a family who owned a fishing boat and wanted to escape from Vietnam. They were people she knew from church. She had been stockpiling food, water, and fuel on the other side of the mountain for over a year. She could only do it a little at a time to keep any suspicious neighbor from reporting any unusual activities. Our family was always under surveillance since my dad had served and sided with Americans. I remember my mom had to keep the big news from me just in case I said something to the other kids that would jeopardize our escape.
I found out about the plan the day before we were to leave. I did not get a chance to say goodbye to my friends or relatives and I had to leave my dog behind. On the night we escaped, we hiked across the mountains off the island we lived on. We used the moonlight to find our way to the beach on the other side where the fishing boat was anchored. We got on a small rowboat that took us out to the bigger fishing boat. My sister was pregnant with my nephew at the time along with the wife of the owner of the boat. Their rowboat tipped over and they went under. Luckily, one of my brothers was able to swim out and save them. This was a foreshadowing of what was to come as we began our journey. We all made it onto the fishing boat safely after that.
The first couple of days of our escape went smoothly and we did not encounter any patrols or pirate ships. We thought we were in the clear until our propeller got caught in some fishing nets. Our boat’s engine stalled and we had to use our sail to steer the boat. The wind was not in our favor. Our boat started to drift closer to the shore of Vietnam. We could see land in the distance and a patrol boat started coming toward us. Everyone was panicking because if we got caught, we would either be killed or thrown into harsh labor prison. The kids would most likely be orphaned. We were all praying for a miracle. My brother and another person decided to dive down and see if they could fix the propeller and the engine. As they dove into the water, the wind shifted, and our boat turned toward the approaching patrol boat. They thought we were going to attack them and thought the divers were carrying weapons and bombs. They reported it over the radio to headquarters then turned the tail of the boat and headed toward the shore. My brother and the engineer were able to replace the propeller and temporarily fix the engine. We were able to turn around and get back on course in the South China Sea toward the Philippines.
A few days later, the engine broke and we were not able to fix it. We had to rely solely on the sail. We set sail again and prayed for good wind. We had enough food and water for a little over a week.
A week into the journey, we discovered that the fuel barrel had leaked and contaminated our food. We tried cleaning it with seawater, but it did not help much. Our freshwater supply was running low and we could not waste it washing the food. We salvaged what we could. Ten days in, we were out of food and water. Everyone was weak from a lack of food and water. We prayed for rain and rescue.
Our boat was still drifting in the middle of nowhere. We saw big cargo ships go by but they never stopped to help. It finally rained a little on the twelfth day and we collected a little bit of water to moisten our lips. We were all weak, thirsty, starving, and waiting to die when we heard small boat engines in the distance on the seventeenth day. The small fishing boats approached us, and we called out for help. They towed our boat to one of the Philippine islands called San Fernando. There were so many people waiting on the beach to welcome us and help carry us to the waiting ambulances. We were all transported to the hospital. I was separated from my parents since I needed to be in the pediatric unit and they were in the adult unit. None of us spoke English so we communicated with everyone through hand gestures.
It took a week of being in the hospital before I had the strength to go see my parents in their hospital room. Luckily, there was a Vietnamese translator on that island, and she was able to help us acclimate to our new environment. We were transported to another island where they had refugee camps and the government began processing our immigration status. Since my dad had served in the military and worked with the American government, we were considered political refugees. While we waited for sponsorship to the U.S., we moved through two refugee camps on two different islands and tried to learn English. It took a little over a year before our family was sponsored by three churches in Iowa. We were all given parkas to prepare us for the cold Midwest weather.
My family boarded the plane on August 18th, 1983, wearing our parkas to fly to the U.S. We finally made it to Iowa on August 20th after a layover in San Francisco. It was a balmy August day. I looked out to see friendly unfamiliar faces who seemed shocked that we were wearing parkas in 90-degree humid Midwest weather. We were all excited but scared to have found a new home. Everything was different, the language, people, food, culture, jobs, and education system. With our heads held high and a big smile on our faces, we walked down to greet our new friends and home, a place full of hope and opportunities.
Iowa Writers’ Collaborative Columnists:
Hi Jane, This is a fascinating story that I will share. It makes me think of Vietnamese acquaintances and wonder about their stories. One in particular is Fr. Peter, who was at Holy Spirit Parish in Carroll for a while,and a good friend of my parents. Thank you.
Thanks for sharing!