An open letter from a reluctant refugee

This flurry of words has been in the making for two decades. They poured as I read story after story of our government's ruthlessness.

I am a refugee.

I don't speak of it freely.The word has not sat well with me, except when I was a young girl in Vietnam.

In Vietnam, our family were 'nguoi vuot bien', literally, person exceeding boundary.

As a seven-year-old, this brought images of adventures to places afar.

Hearing whispers of ships, pirates, oceans, islands, America the land of plenty, and Australia full of cuddly and bouncy animals, I dreamt of going on a 'trip'. I sensed the fear and danger in those hushed adult conversations.

But as a tomboy, I imagined danger as made up of thrilling, scary (of the monster kind), eventful quests heroes take to discover foreign lands. I did hear the losing life and limb stories, but as child, I could not have truly comprehended death when I have not seen it.

Yes, some neighbours did not return. I only understood that they left to go somewhere, and that somewhere - 'nuoc ngoai' (foreign country) - was better, freer.

My chats with my grandma were all about the things I would eat and do over there. 'Snickers' were a rare chocolate treat from my uncles in Australia. I wanted to eat Snickers often.

Then I learnt what being a refugee meant.

In the Malaysian Detention Centre, we were all in the same boat, we were waiting to be 'processed'. 'Refugee' was a bureaucratic label that would determine our destiny, and that would give meaning to my parents' sacrifice.

Our destiny determined, in Australia the Lucky Country, I learnt that a refugee was grateful, 'disadvantaged NESB' (Non English Speaking Background), and 'Fresh Of the Boat'. Being a FOB was ego crushing for a young girl – I was daggy, with bad accented English, and sartorially backwards. (In the 1990s, St Vinnies carried second-hands, not trendy vintage).

A few years later, with good intentions, my celebrators remarked on my 'very good English', and I was bestowed the sense of being a model integrated refugee.

I returned to Vietnam for a trip. To the Vietnamese authorities, we were still officially 'illegal emigrants', a check box item on visa forms to enter Vietnam. In the eyes of my compatriots, however, I transformed to being a 'viet kieu' (expatriate). I was in the illustrious class of 'viet kieu' that earned it the hard way: a stint in prison with our whole family serving time (and months of hard labour for my parents), being done over by smugglers, and 'succeeding' on the thirteenth attempt to flee by boat. Still, I was deemed 'lucky' and needed to share the good fortune.

I grew up, studied law and human rights, and became a public policy advisor. I carried a chip on my shoulder, shying from refugee work for fear that I would be biased and thought of as biased. I did not want to face the silent "of course you would say that" rebuttal to my pro-refugee proposals. I was a closet refugee.

Then 'refugee' took on crueller and demeaning confections: queue jumper, cheat, liar ("anything to stay in Australia"), violent ingrate troublemaker, terrorist, criminal, illegal, and it just goes on. These spawned from the political, bureaucratic mire that I belong to. How awfully foolish of me to have gotten so carried away with my professional aspiration for impartiality.

I had censored myself for all the wrong reasons.

I am a refugee.

My family are of refugee pedigree. My grandma fled the Communists from North Vietnam to South Vietnam as a young widow with two little boys.

My parents don't speak freely of their many attempts to 'vuot bien'. They are not natural storytellers. What they do say, they say it briefly and matter-of-factly. Over dinner with my mum and dad, I asked them, "why did you do it?" They looked at me and smiled, amused by this question from me after 25 years in Australia.

"We had to."

"But why did you think we had to?"

"It was the only way. There was no other choice. We had to."

My parents are the most risk adverse people I have ever known. (I was not allowed out after dark until the age of 18, for fear of bogeymen that preyed on teenage girls).

It didn't add up. I probed.

They pondered, and repeated the mantra. Simple as that.

Desperation and hope beyond reason all at once, that is the courage needed to embark on frightening journeys. Let that define us refugees.