Paradise Now

I finally watched this film, over the weekend.

The highest praise I can give to a movie is that it is well made. I remember one of the best ever comments on an essay I wrote was: “well written.” That was all, and I was beaming. Since then, whenever I read a book, or see a movie, that I thought was particularly good, I think: “well written / made”. Not really the most useful review, however. (Not that this post is a review, except in so far as it says: It’s good. I reckon you should watch it, if you have not already.)

This film is about two young men, who are given a suicide bombing mission. The mission does not go to plan. As a result, the audience is presented with an insight into why each of the young men (but one in particular) has decided to accept the mission. It is a tense movie, exploring the issue from a number of angles. The film is set within the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict; the young men are Palestinian.

I like the myriad ways one can read the title. Paradise Now: could be a statement that where we are at the moment is paradise, or an impatient demand for change, or ironically drawing attention to the poverty and despair of one’s current situation. These meanings come to play in the film; it is what makes the film so very interesting.

The complex reasons for why one of the young men, Said, chooses to partake in the mission are laid out carefully, and subtly. There is talk – Said persuades the mission leader to take him back – but there is also demonstration – Said asks his mother questions about his father. The reasons are so much more than the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. There were some very powerful images: Said, with bomb strapped all around his chest, staring into a bus and deciding whether or not to get on; Said leaning against his mother’s window, watching her prepare food; Said’s friend (I’ve forgotten his name already!) torn between what he believes, and being a good friend.

The film reminded me of the reasons why people choose to do extreme things for a cause, whether removing oppression is possible without violent means, and of my own family’s attitude towards war.

One of the main reasons that Said chooses to participate in the suicide attack is because of his father. Although he has reasons connected with the overarching conflict, his greater concern is his family’s dignity. Said’s friend’s decision is much less complicated, and much more passionately intertwined with the conflict: he is oppressed and he hates his oppressors (that is simplifying it somewhat – after all, there are good reasons for why he hates his oppressors). There is also a young woman – she is the first image of the film that we see – who is the daughter of a martyr and who passionately believes in non-violent means of change. She makes an argument that you may be familiar with: the value of showing to the world the criminality of Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians and the poignancy of being seen as victims, rather than aggressors.

I do not know suficient about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to brave an opinion. But I do understand that there may be reasons worth dying for, even if I do not think I would ever believe in anything enought to die for it.

In university, I demonstrated. When I asked a young woman to join me (in a peaceful Reclaim the Night march), she refused and proffered the following reasons: her parents had emigrated from an Eastern European country to Australia for fear of persecution for their political activity. In Australia, her parents had been persecuted for their past political activity in the Eastern European country. She would not participate in public political demonstrations.

I recall being surprised by this, and (because I am egocentric) relating it to myself: my parents emigrated from Viet Nam because they did not think they could make a life under the incoming communist party. They were not engaged in the political dimensions of the war around them; I always understood their reasons to be very simple. For the entirety of my father’s life in Viet Nam, there was violent conflict – Viet independence from the French, WWII, the American-Viet Nam War, the Viet-Sino War, the Viet-Cambodian War. My father was a nationalist – but he was also very principled and he thought everyone was corrupt. He was quite disengaged from the political aspects of the wars: it did not matter what they were about, they always inhibited his making a life for himself and his family. All my parents wanted was a good and peaceful life in which they and their children could prosper, one they did not think they could have in Viet Nam. It was only when the American-Viet Nam war occurred, and when the Viet Cong won political power that my family felt it was unbearable to continue trying to make a life in Viet Nam.

It is more complicated than I am currently explaining, and probably more complicated than I – or even any of my family members who made the decisions – understand. But the reason my family left Viet Nam was not because they held a political view that communism was wrong.

I believed that my family was pacifist. This was borne out when my maternal grandmother, normally mild-tempered and sweet, threw a riotous tantrum and threatened to cease speaking with her second-youngest son when he indicated that he wanted to join the Australian Defence Forces.

It surprised me then to learn from my father’s reminiscensces that he had wanted to join the South Viet Nam army, before he was married to my mother. Ba told me he thought it was a way to get away from the hard work of farming and fishing. Because Ba is a dutiful son, he asked his mother and father for permission. From what my father has told me about my paternal grandmother (Ah Ma) and from what I know of literary tropes, Ah Ma was a stereotypical dowager empress type: strong-willed and manipulative. Although Ba was not one of Ah Ma’s favourites, she appreciated his hard-work and general aptitude at most of the things he tried his hand at. Ah Ma found a family with a marriageable young woman (my mother!) and married my father off to her. (I will tell that story in better detail another day.) Now, my father could no longer join the army as he had a wife, and would very soon have children, to support.

During the American -Viet Nam war, my father’s primary concern was how to keep his growing family fed. He did what he needed to do: during the day, if he was found, he assisted the South Vietnamese army; at night, the Viet Cong. He tells me of occassions where he would build a bridge during the day, and dismantle the same bridge at night. Mostly he spent his time evading either army and working with whomever would take him on.

I have always known that my family are not strongly politically motivated. The paramount value in my family is the continuation and prosperity of the family. When I watch movies like Paradise Now, I am moved to wonder what would motivate me to take extreme action, or even actions that are politically dangerous in a more oppressive political climate than the one in which I grew up (Australia). I am much more politically and ideological interested than my siblings, but I think I would behave more like my father (preserve at all costs) than like Said in Paradise Now.

I have participated in protests and demonstrations: anti-war ones, feminist ones and a few feminist anti-war ones. I recall one particular march from my early university days, protesting the introduction of voluntary student unionism. I did not know anyone else on the march, and I looked different: I wore all black (I almost always wore black, back then. Not goth black, just kind of boring-please-don’t-look-at-me black). I befriended the people nearby me: a young woman in flowy skirt and wild red hair, and a young man in brightly coloured clothes. The march was mostly peaceful but I somehow found myself in a group that was attempting to storm the administration block. When I realised what was occurring, I tried to leave. As the crowd surged forwards, I was edging out and away. People shouted at me, and I shouted back – such articulate things as: No! Stop! Stop it! Let me go! I’m not part of this! The brightly coloured man called me a coward. This hurt, but I kept trying to leave. I did finally extract myself and I ran away from the demonstration and into the safety of the library where I stayed in a quiet corner with my favourite journals until I felt I could emerge. The students ‘occupied’ the admin block for two days, and I think a lot of them found it very exciting. I wondered then how many actually believed taking the admin block would aid their cause, and how many were there because of the momentum and peer pressure.

I am wiser these days when I choose my demonstrations. If they might turn violent, I do not attend. I believe there are other means for me to effect change, and have my voice heard.

I am not suggesting that participating in demonstrations is akin to being a political martyr or a suicide bomber, but it is doing something which may have a detrimental effect on oneself for an ideological cause. My family would never understand if negative consequences were visited upon my head for a political or ideological reason. When Ba and Um gave up so much to ensure my prosperity, how can I do otherwise but ensure that their sacrifice was not in vain?

We could start somewhere else

On 20 April 1983, my family arrived in Australia.

The story of our migration from Viet Nam to Australia is full of so many threads that I have yet to pull together, yet to fully comprehend.

I guess the real story of my family’s migration to Australia started well before I was born and has its phases: the broad story of why, the intricacies of how and when.

In early 1975, towards the end of the Vietnam War, US troops who were leaving Vietnam made a unilateral offer to take any South Vietnamese who wished to go with them to the US. Three of my uncles, the third, the eighth and the twelfth (Tien, Quan and Y) decided to take this offer. Without telling my grandparents, they left Vietnam with the expectation of arriving in the US and then bringing the rest of my family over. Unfortunately, the Vietnamese who went with the US troops were unceremoniously dumped in Hong Kong, the troops returning to the US without taking my uncles with them. My grandmother did not know where they were, and was distraught. My father, being a practical and logical man, realised that my uncles had gone with the US troops. I do not know how my uncles finally contacted my grandmother, or even when they arrived in Australia.

In 1979, the communist government of Vietnam declared that part Chinese persons were free to leave the country. My family lived in an area that was predominantly Chinese-Vietnamese (Bac Lieu); both my maternal grandparents’ parents had been Chinese and my paternal grandfather was half-Chinese.

My grandmother chose 1979 as the time to leave. Assisting her decision was the government’s decision to compulsorily acquire my grandfather’s fishing business and boats. She went with my eldest brother and the rest of my aunts and uncles (excepting my mother, aunts number four and seven), and their children. At this time, only my immediate family was almost fully formed. Only I, the youngest of eight, was yet to be born. Aunt number six was married and had, at that stage, two sons. Her husband’s mother refused to allow the eldest to leave Vietnam and so he remained. An aunt-in-law, the wife of uncle Tien (number three) had one son. She also accompanied my grandmother.

My family were not strongly political. My father’s family were landowners, and he himself was staunchly nationalist but despised most political leaders for their unethical behaviour. All of my family, both my father’s and mother’s side were pacifist – evading where possible any involvement in the war.

My grandmother, eldest brother, aunts, uncles and cousins went by rickety boat, onto the high seas. I do not know if they went first to Malaysia, as we later would, or whether they travelled as directly as they knew how. I do not know if Australia was then their goal, or if at that stage it was the US. At that time, I believe my grandmother knew that her sons had aimed for the US, but still did not know their exact whereabouts. This astounds me; that with the distance and time, that we still found each other in the end.

This rickety boat was picked up by an Italian Red Cross ship, and taken to Italy. This part of my family stayed in Italy a few years, and under the refugee programme eventually migrated to Australia, because this is where my three uncles ended up. Somehow, at some time, the connection was made.

Memory is in the present tense.

***

A man struggles with his daughters in the grey light of evening. A bedraggled group of people wade through water, waves beating against chests and faces, arms desperately grasping at items soon to be lost in the water. This is where we lose most of our family photos; Um does not forget. We live beside and from the river; we must fight it to find another home.

Ba is leading and he carries me, asleep on his shoulder. Um walks somewhere behind, carrying Brother 8 who is not asleep but quietly hugging his much loved blanket. Between them stumble my sisters: No 4, No 6 and No 7, heads down, tired and alone. The cold water and Ba’s jerky movements wake me – Ba calls back to Um asking about the sleeping pills she should have fed me. Um exasperatedly calls out – I fed her two. I wriggle and demand to be put down, to walk on my own through the water. I am two years old, going on three. Unimpressed, Ba shushes me, continues his struggle towards the distant green light of a small waiting fishing boat.

Sister 7 is youngest of those struggling on their own. She is five, soon to be six. The waves knock her down time and again. At last, it is too much. She turns around – it is so much easier to walk with the tide, rather than against it – and returns to the land: it is so much closer than the distant light, there is warmth and food back there; ahead there is only uncertainty and months on the water with only rice and salt to eat. But Sister 7 is responsible – she calls out to Um & Ba, calls out that she is returning home. Um yells at Ba and at Sister 7: at Ba to stop Sister 7, at Sister 7 to not be stupid, to continue with the family, who will look after her? “I will look after myself”, Sister 7 announces and continues towards land. “Walk by yourself then” Ba says to me, letting me fall as he races back to collect Sister 7, whom he scoops up and carries. He picks me up, too and carries us both, struggling for different reasons.

We arrive at the boat, though it is hard to recall how. The walk was interminable and yet, may have lasted no more than half an hour.

***
People often ask me whether I was a boat person. My only response is – sort of; or maybe, no, not really. We came by boat to Malaysia and stayed in the refugee camp in Kuala Lumpur for many months before coming to Australia by the family reunion program under the auspices of the UN refugee program. From KL to Australia, we flew. We are boat and plane people. It was harder than for some, easier than for others.