A Forgotten Star
A FORGOTTEN STAR
In Memory of Father Joe Devlin, S.J
The New York Times' reporter kept glancing impatiently at his watch on the bus to Songkhla, a Thai small town down in the far south near the Malaysian border. He said to his companion, an Asian sitting next to him, "We left Bankok at 8:00 a.m., and it's 2:00 p.m now. We've been on the bus for six long hours. Hope it's worth the trip."
"Of course it's worth the trip. He's the best man America has ever produced," the Asian answered dramatically. Then he added, seeing the doubt in the reporter's rolling eyes, "At least in the eyes of the Vietnamese refugees."
"Wonder why he has not been on the news?"
"It's very simple. He's a forgotten star in the corner of Thailand. It can be a controversial issue politically though. We'll know when we see him."
"You should have stayed in New York and read poetry. Hope we don't waste our time. Time is money." The reporter looked outside. The trees along the road kept moving quickly behind the bus. "It's awfully gray," he sighed.
"The sky of September is often gray on the seashore of Thailand," his companion replied with patience.
"Only it is grayer today!"
"Certainly, a big storm has occured some days ago, remember?" his friend said.
The bus finally reached its destination. It stopped. They arrived at Songkla where there was one of the biggest refugee camps in Thailand. The Songkla camp contained regularly from three thousands to five thousands of the boat people that landed in Thailand. From the end of 1978 to the spring of 1981, Songkla had received more than fifteen thousands of the refugees. Through the sponsorship of different charity organizations, churches, and individuals around the world, near ten thousands of these were relocated about six months to a year after their arrivals. Yet, many new refugees kept coming, and the camps - Songkla, Laemsing, Panat Nikhom for the boat people and Khao I Dang for the walk people who come across Laos and Cambodia to the border of Thailand, were always crowded. Suddenly, on their way to the gate of the camp of Songkhla, the reporter and his companion heard a voice on the loudspeaker, "Listen! There seems to be a refugee boat in danger! We need volunteers."
Refugees, men and women, old and young, came alive and rushed to the shore in front of the reporters. They followed the running refugees with their eyes and looked toward the sea. A tiny boat bobbed on the open sea, appeared and disappeared suddenly between the high waves on the horizon.
"Quick! The flag!" ordered the man the reporters immediately recognized as Father Joe Devlin.
Father Joe had the wide flag of the Republic of South Vietnam lifted up. The yellow banner with three red stripes waved vividly in the wind as if a mother were calling for her children. Father Joe commanded to the volunteers. "Put your life-vests on!"
Father Joe himself took five volunteers on the small motorized boat, ready to run to the rescue with many extra pneumatic floats and life-buoys.
All these things occurred so quickly that the reporter and his Vietnamese companion could not say a word. They were mesmerized by all the acitivities that were quicly deployed in front of them. They had just time to take some pictures. People in the camp anxiously watched the rescue boat as big waves crashed against the sandy shore. Could the volunteers and Father Joe reach and help those poor boat people, or would they lose their own lives in the violent waves? The rescue boat was tiny, hardly bigger than a canoe. It bounced up and down between the deadly waves. The two reporters heard the refugees discuss loudly.
"Father Joe is taking a great risk," a Vietnamese said.
"Especially he is sixty-five years old. At that age, we wouldn't do anything like that," joined in his friend.
The reporter began their interviews with the refugees, who endlessly praised the old priest. Father Joe was American-born, he left the States for Vietnam in 1970. He had shared his life with thousands and thousands of poor Vietnamese in the last few years of the war, and now with the new refugees as they first landed. He had founded Songkhla camp in 1978 and had helped many boat people to find their new home in different countries. He was the soul of Songkhla camp, an American volunteer said.
"What makes you say that?" asked the New York Times' reporter.
"Well, I've been here for almost two years, and I haven't seen anyone as devoted as Father Joe to the cause of the refugees. He got beaten many times by the Thai police for defending the refugees."
"Beaten?" asked the American reporter, "Is there a law for American citizen?"
"Yes, many times. One time, they disguised as bandits. They robbed him and broke his motorcycle. We talk about the Third World country here."
"Did he report these crimes to the local administration or government or even to our embassy?"
"Are you crazy? The camp would be shut down immediately if he reported. More than once the police have threatened to shut it down!"
"So he and the refugees had to keep quiet?"
"What could we do? We are, as the Vietnamese say, like fish on a dry land. Everybody knows about these incidents, about the police abuses... But we can't report officially. Not a darn thing can't be done! We have tried to help each other as best as we could! And Father Joe deserved a Peace Nobel!"
So, Father Joe was really a star shining on their unfortunate lives. The reporter and his interpreter and photographer went about interviewing different persons. They all had the same opinion: Father Joe was truly a father to all the refugees in this camp, like a shepherd who took good care of his flock in the Bible ...
"Hurrah! They're returning! Hurrah! Bravo!" exclaimed the crowd, running towards the shore.
Peope cheered. They laughed, cried, and ran everywhere. Boat people were coming! Boat people were coming! They were glad and excited because the small motorized rescue boat had caught the lost boat and guided it back to a safe harbor. Boat people were coming! Boat people were coming! The cheers ehoed like ringing bells on Easter Sunday. Quick, the camera! Hurrah!
Alas, the boat people were in a deplorable condition. They had been robbed, beaten, and the women were raped many times. They had given up every hope, letting the deadly waves push their boat up and down. Without the rescue, they would have drowned in the sea. They would have been remembered in their relatives' memory as missing at sea in the search for freedom.
People stepped in the water and walked to the shore. The volunteers went out to the boat and carried the women to the camp clinic. One, two, three, four, five, six... My God, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, ... People wiped the running tears, ... twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen! God, fifteen dying, wounded, and brutalized women! The refugees led the new refugees, who limped, to their barracks, and fed them. They wanted to hear the news from their homeland, but didn't dare to ask the unfortunate refugees yet. The new people in their hoarse voices told them about the hardship and suffering they had met on the high sea. They would stay home if they had known that there were more brutalities in a free country like this. How could they bear the burden of seeing their wives and daughters being raped in front of them, yet they couldn't do a thing? They cried together for their common fates, as if their tears could wipe out their limitless wounds and shame.
The Vietnamese reporter quickly scribbled down what he was seeing and hearing without interfering, as if he were afraid to hurt these people in their already deplorable condition. The sufferings of his countrymen reminded him of the verses of a famous Vietnamese poet, the Vietnamese poet of all times -- Nguyen Du:
Tra?i qua mo^.t cuo^.c be^? da^u
Nhu*~ng ddie^`u tro^ng tha^'y ma` ddau ddo*'n lo`ng
How could he translate them to move hearts of the New York Times' readers as they move his? "Men's fortunes change even as nature shifts -- the sea new rolls where mulberry fields grew. One watches things that make one sick at heart." Some scholar had translated those verses, yet how could he translate for the average readers what he was feeling at that moment, "Through the upheaval of change, my heart is torn apart by what I have seen!"...
"O^ng My~ no'i tie^'ng Vie^.t!" (Mr. American speaks Vietnamese!) the newly arrived children yelled out when they heard Father Joe speak Vietnamese fluently.
Their surprise and their innocence made them forget temporarily their suffering, their shyness and hunger. In front of their eyes, they only saw a tall and lanky American with beard speak Vietnamese. They followed him without stopping whispering to each other among themselves, "Mr. American speaks Vietnamese!"
"I'm not American," said Father Joe, smiling and winking, "I'm Vietnamese."
"You're lying," they replied together. "You're American. You have beard. You have blue eyes. You're tall. You 're kind. You're American."
The reporters and the refugees couldn't help laughing. Father Joe took them to his office, gave each of them a cup of hot chocolate and some candy and sent them away. "Go back to your parents now, little children. I have a lot of work to do. Go now, children! Thank you!"
The children seemed disappointed, but obeyed. "Bye-bye, o^ng My~, " they said sadly, waiving at Father Joe.
"Don't call him Mr. American," an old man closy by said. "He's a priest. Call him Father. He's very good, but very busy now. Don't disturb him, children!"
The American reporter appeared in front of Father Joe's office.
"What can I do for you?" asked Father Joe.
After introducing himself and showing the journalist's ID card, the reporter went straight to the point, "We'd like to write an article about you in New York Times with all the wonderful things that you did for the refugees..."
"Oh no, thank you," interrupted Father Joe. "It's not I who will make the news." He pointed out to the refugees, "It's they who are worth reporting. It's they who need to be on the news to wake up the human conscience. They are like lambs to be sacrificed -- you have seen their suffering. Go and look at them! Fifteen women and girls were raped mercilessly. How many times? And how many more? The refugees were helpless. You could write something, a lot of things about them, not about me. They need all the help the world can give."
He looked at the reporter as if to apologize, "You have to excuse me now, I have to go to the clinic. I'm sorry that I can't stay and talk to you long. By the way, go with the Red Cross tomorrow to Ko Kra . You will have the shattering news that will no doubt echo around the world for a while. God bless you, my son!"
He rushed out toward the clinic where the women were brought in. The reporter shook his head, following him with his eyes. "An amazing man!" He would certainly write something, something that would shake the world about what was happening here, in the apparently peaceful Thailand. He had heard about Ko Kra, a tiny island in the gulf of Siam, just miles away from the shore, situated betweeen Bankok and Songkhla.
Unable to see the Thai abuse his wife, his children and the families of his countrymen, a man had escaped with a piece of wood across the sea. He was picked up by the new boat people whose states would be no better if Father Joe had not rescue them in time. He said in his broken voice that Ko Kra was the hell on earth, where the fishermen kept the Vietnamese for the pirates' lusts. There the Vietnamese were no more than captive animals that Thai fishermen-pirates could hunt, butcher and rape at their desire. "Please rescue my family and others still being held there and tell the world about our misery!" the man insisted.
The reporters decided that they would report immediately to the International Red Cross and fly the next day with them to Ko Kra. They would write about Ko Kra's nightmares. Ko Kra, the new concentration camp of the refugees! Ko Kra, the island of brutalities of the Thai fishermen-pirates! Ko Kra! Ko Kra!
The reporters knew that had come across the biggest and saddest news in the desperate exodus of the Vietnamese. Those news would overshadow all other news. They knew that their lives were worthwhile when they had shed light upon the crimes committed against the refugees in Ko Kra.
Father Joe was sitting on a chair beside the bed where a very young girl was lying in delirium. She was insensible to anything. She saw the band of devilish Thai fishermen dancing half-naked furiously around her, pulling, pushing and taunting her. They were tossing her to one another like a ball with their savage laughter. They were ripping her apart. She was lying on the deck of the boat, eyes glancing and staring at her. The waves heaved the boat endlessly. The wicked faces. The naked bodies. Help, she was terribly hurt. She was dying under the heavy weight of the lustful pirates. She raved, "Help! Help! Mother! Help me! Mother! Help me, somebody! Mother! Where are you? Mother! Please, I beg you sirs! ... I bow to sirs! ... Please, have pity... Have pity! Don't do it! Don't hurt me! Give back my clothes... Please, please!..."
Her words and cries were heard throughout the clinic. They were choked with sobbing. The Vietnamese reporter taped them. He would use them without revealing the name of the young victim all the suffering and the shame that his countrymen had gone through to find freedom. These brutalities recorded in his tapes would be the solid and vivid documents that would call the world's attention to the refugees' pleas and would shake the peaceful appearance of Thailand, a country that had no war for many centuries. Poor little thirteen-year-old girl barely reaching her puberty and having already passed the ordeal of abominable atrocity! And how many more victims as young as this one there were that they didn't know about? When would the Thai government interfere to stop these fishermen-turned-pirates?
Father Joe had know too many times about the cruel violations of human rights by the pirates. Thick documents had been filed with the High Commissioner for Refugees Office and reported to the Thai administration, but no actions were taken to punish the guilty fishermen or to prevent effectively any further transgressions.
Father Joe put a small bag of ice on the forehead of the delirious girl , saying softly, " You're ashore, at least. You 're safe now. No one can harm you anymore. Have courage. Let the past die..." He comforted the girl like a mother consoled her daughter, his eyes reflecting a great sadness, suffering and understanding.
The girl slowly opened her eyes, her fever had stopped. She saw at first the silver cross pinned on the shirt pocket of the priest. Glad to see that the girl came back finally to life, the priest said, "You're safe, thanks to God. You'll be fine, daughter."
"Who are you?" she asked timidly. "Where am I? Where are my brothers?"
"Here we are, sister!" exlaimed joyfully her ten-year-old and seven-year-old brothers, who had been sitting near her for hours. "We're in a refugee camp. We're safe now. This is Father Joe."
The girl cried... Tears of joy and suffering ran down her angelic cheeks. She was just able to say, holding Father Joe's hands, between her sobs, "Father! Father!..."
Father Joe gently tapped her shoulders, trying to soothe her, "Everything will be fine. Have courage, daughter. Don't think and talk too much now. You 're safe now. Nothing is more precious than you life and your soul. Don't brood on what happened to you. Think positively about your family, about your two brothers, about your future. At least, you've come ashore alive. From now on, I'll take care of you -- your brothers and you -- as my own children. You're the children God has given me."
The teenager said softly, "Thank you, Father! But I am so ashamed!"
"You have nothing to be ashamed of, daughter," Father Joe told her quickly, thinking about all the counselling that the girl might need professionally with a skillful psychiatrist or counselor in his small Center for the Unaccompanied Refugee Children at the camp in Chanthaburi. "It's not your fault, dear child. You're miserable. I'm miserable. But don't think about it now. We'll talk about it at another time. Promise me, daughter, to forget it."
"Yes, Father. I'll try to forget it," she promised.
Father Joe glanced at his watch. He had been staying in the clinic for a long time, visiting the sick and the victims. He stood up to go, saying, "I must go to say the mass now. I'll pray for you. Rest well now, daughter!"
The girl nodded her head, feeling peace in her heart, as she saw Father Joe lean his back, walking out of the clinic's door, followed by the two reporters from the United States, going their ways to finish their dispatches that would soon be echoing across continents and waking up the world about the refugees' pleas.
Lying in her bed, the young girl heard Father Joe preaching to those in the camp and the new refugees. "The Lord brought the children of Israel out of Egypt. The Lord has brought you here. Do remember that you're safe at last, and try to forget all the hardship and suffering. Hatred and the will to revenge only make us suffer more. Life and freedom are precious gifts God has given us. Let's give thanks to God. Let's pray for your countrymen, pray for the boat people still on the sea. Let's pray for for ourselves for what we did, and for what we haven't done. Today is a special day, a day of liberation for 47 persons that came to our camp after ten days of thirst and hunger, of suffering and humiliation, It's a day to be remembered, it's a night to be remembered, for God has brought some of your couuntrymen here. Though they had to suffer injustice and human violations, they have seen also courageous volunteers who'd just guided them to a safe harbor, and they have seen our love and care. Let's pray for the unfortunate, pray for the dead, so that, in the love of God, they might see the light of hope, the light of resurrection. Let's give thanks to the courageous man who had jumped at sea and let us know about other victims held at Ko Kra. Rescue boats and helicopters would be there tomorrow morning, Help will be on their way!..."
The girl closed her eyes. She seemed to see her peaceful village, to see her mother working in the shade of the rows of the coconut trees. She listened to the sea wind, to the roar of waves... In her dream, she saw Fater Joe leading the refugees home, to a new Canaan, to the promised land named Vietnam.
The reporters worked furiously at their stories. They would work on new assignments in the few days and months to come: the horrors at Ko Kra . They had no time to lose. Life was precious. Time was precious. Any moment counted, even during the darkest hours.
Outside, high in the sky, was a shining star. That star guided the boad people to a safe harbor, to freedom, to happiness. The evening might be dark still, but if there was a star, there was hope and hope was endless.
Nguyên Đỗ
P. S A few true events were mixed together here to make the story moving and focusing to let people around the world know that not everything was covered under the dust of time: the kindness of benefactors, volunteers, reporters was, is, and will be always remembered for a long, a very long time.
My special thanks to Nguyễn Thị Hiền, Nguyễn Thị Thảo, Nguyễn Minh Thư for sharing the stories of Songkhla.
