My brother Tuc died recently from kidney cancer. Tuc was not my biological brother, but adopted me as his brother 12 years ago. He was a refugee from Vietnam; a strong Catholic, proud father and great worker for the Vietnamese community through the St Vincent de Paul Society, which is where I met him. Although our lives had different starts, I found much to learn from his life.
Tuc was an officer in the South Vietnamese army. After the war ended in 1975 he was interned by the North Vietnamese for many years, locked up in a hole in the ground. I asked him how he survived. He smiled and pointed to his picture of the Madonna. 'She helped me.'
Tuc had a strong faith which helped him through the trauma of his incarceration and his separation from his family. I wonder if I could have survived such persecution and torture.
Tuc escaped to Thailand in the early 1980s. He spoke good English, so became an interpreter in the camp. He told international officials about US soldiers he'd seen living in villages in Vietnam, long after the war ended. The US listed them as 'MIAs', but Tuc said they had decided to live in Vietnam and had new families. He was puzzled when US officials denied that US soldiers would do this.
He could not understand why these intelligent foreigners could not accept facts that contradicted their preconceptions. I'm reminded of how, in the same way, many Australians do not believe the stories of refugees, because they do not fit with our ideas about how people act.
Tuc was offered resettlement in the US or Australia. He chose Australia because he was disheartened by the US leaving Vietnam to the communists he believed would destroy his country. He arrived as a refugee in 1983, and worked full time in order to save to buy a home for his family, still in Vietnam.
I met him in 1988, about the same time that his wife, son and daughter finally were resettled in Australia. Tuc had been separated from them since 1975.
It was not long before Tuc was calling me 'my brother'. At first I thought this was a cultural thing. But when he called my parents 'my father and my mother', I realised he had adopted us into his family.
A Vietnamese custom is to have a special gathering for the new year, or Tet, which is the same time as Chinese New Year. Tuc would call me every year and wish me happy new year in Vietnamese ('chuc mung na moi') and invite me to a meal to celebrate.
Tuc told me he was touched by the welcome he and other Vietnamese had received from Anglo-Celtic Australians. Once, he told me I was like an egg. 'How so?' I asked 'You are white on the outside and yellow inside,' was his witty retort.
When my mother first met him she asked him what he did in Vietnam 'Kill communists,' replied Tuc. Mum, who had moved from the DLP to support the Liberals, was not terribly shocked. This was his sense of humour, but it also reflected the seriousness of what it meant to be involved in a civil war.
I visited Vietnam a few times and told Tuc about it. I explained how busy Saigon was, and all the shops and businesses that I saw. I told him about the beautiful singing in the cathedral in Saigon during the mass I attended.
Tuc had not returned to Vietnam and I encouraged him to return to see some family there. Tuc said he was afraid to go back because of what the communists might do to him. I tried to reassure him that they would not touch him as he would have his brother the lawyer with him. Tuc smiled, but was not convinced. I learnt how the traumatic experiences of refugees can stay with them for years.
Over the years I attended the weddings of Tuc's daughter and son. He was very proud of them as they had both completed studies at University. He was also very fond of his grandchildren. Whenever I asked him how he was, he would tell me he was 'flat out like a drinking lizard'.
This year Tuc did not call me for Tet. I thought how slack I had been for not calling him, instead.
Then one day he called. I thought he was going to rouse on me in his kind way for not having our Tet meal. But he story was more serious. He was very sick in hospital with cancer.
I was shocked, and I went to hospital to visit him. He was clearly ill. I stayed for a while and then he told me I should go; astute enough, despite his illness, to point out that I needed $8 in coins to pay for parking at the hospital. His practical side never left him.
The last time I saw him I showed him some photos of Vietnam. It was easier than talking about his deteriorating health. I also took him a pair of mum's rosary beads that had been sitting in the back of a drawer since Mum died a few years before. Tuc held the beads as we looked through the photos. He told me 'our mother will be with me now'.
The next morning he rang me and told me how he had had the best sleep for a long time and thanked me for the rosary beads.
Tuc died on what would have been Mum's 85th birthday. We never did travel to Vietnam together, but I was very lucky to have met him. Every Tet I will still remember him with 'chuc mung na moi'.
Kerry Murphy is a partner with the specialist immigration law firm D'Ambra Murphy Lawyers. He is a student of Arabic, former Jesuit Refugee Service coordinator, teaches at ANU and was recognised by AFR best lawyers survey as one of Australia's top immigration lawyers.