CHAPTER 21

GANDER, NEWFOUNDLAND

MIRACLE UPON MIRACLE

OCTOBER 1992

What Toan and I did not know was that our defection coincided with a brief time in Canadian history when the government was fulfilling a mandate to diversify the country’s population. For months, all international refugees had been welcomed warmly, regardless of why they wanted to defect. After indicating to the agent inside the room that we did not wish to return to Havana, we were asked only three questions: (1) What is your name? (2) Where are you from? and, (3) Why do you want to live here?

“Phan Thi Kim Phuc and Bui Huy Toan; Vietnam; we wish to be Canadian now.” It was the easiest and most abbreviated test we had ever taken.

Less than an hour later, a government official from the airport transported us to the Fox Moth Motel in Gander, Newfoundland, where we would stay for the next two weeks until our paperwork could be processed. Once we were checked in, our temporary host directed us to a café, where we enjoyed a delicious meal. He then settled us into a comfortable room and gave us extra quantities of toiletries and a little money to purchase the things we needed in order to feel “at home.” Despite my husband’s obvious reservations, which he wore like a suffocating mask, for the first time in my life I felt like a bird uncaged. Other than my stay at the Sochi spa, it was the best treatment I had ever received. This freedom—yes, it suited me well.

During those first few days, I made no fewer than five collect calls to Nick Ut—Uncle Ut—who was living in Los Angeles, California—an entire world away, admittedly, but a world closer than it had ever been before. After Uncle Ut drove me to the hospital at Cu Chi that fateful day in 1972, he and I would not see each other again until 1989, when he was in Cuba on a business trip with the Associated Press.

The AP arranged everything—Nick’s and the accompanying journalist’s travel expenses, as well as securing permission from the American embassy in Cuba for our reunion to take place. At the appointed time, I was taken to the famed Habana Riviera hotel in Havana, where I waited for what felt like hours for Uncle Ut to show up. Finally a large, black vehicle pulled up, and moments later, my favorite photographer emerged. The minder who was at my side—of course, my country’s government could not trust my motives here—took in the scene and said, “There is Nick Ut, the one wearing the white polo shirt and jeans.”

Uncle Ut was much shorter than I remembered—shorter even than me. My breath hitched as I watched Uncle Ut make his way toward me. Before I knew it, I got up, started walking toward him, and then flat out ran to get to this important man. I reached Uncle Ut and collided into his arms, clutching him as tightly as I possibly could.

Uncle Ut pulled back slightly from our embrace, and I could see that he was too overcome with emotion to speak. I will hang onto this sacred hush then, I told myself. Sometimes silence says more than words can.

During my reunion with Uncle Ut, he reminded me that we had, in fact, seen each other on one other occasion since the bombing. “I came to see your family in Trang Bang, you recall? Just after you returned from the burn clinic?”

At that time, Uncle Ut had given my ma and dad a large print of my picture, the photograph that in 1973 won Uncle a very important award, the Pulitzer Prize for Spot News (now called “Breaking News”) Photography. The AP had named the photograph “The Terror of War”—a fitting title, indeed, not only because of the picture’s subject matter, but also because the photograph itself would be reduced to shreds by a mortar bomb that hit my parents’ home shortly after Uncle’s trip.

What is more, while Uncle Ut was making his way to my parents’ house, he himself was struck by mortar fire, which left holes not only in his leg, but also in his beloved camera. A South Vietnamese soldier dragged Uncle away from imminent danger, a fellow AP photographer made sure that Uncle got to a hospital, and soon enough, Nick Ut would be snapping pictures once more. But the experience had changed him. He had had it with Vietnam and decided then and there to head to the West.

Weeks later, Uncle arrived in southern California and sought asylum at Camp Pendleton, eventually moving to Los Angeles, where he has lived ever since. Uncle married, had two children, and became an American citizen, even though to this day he still cannot grasp English-language ways. “Uncle!” I would jokingly reprimand him. “You live in that country but cannot communicate with your countrymen!” To which he would grin and say simply—in Vietnamese, of course—“Yes, but I take very good pictures still.”[22]

Uncle Ut and I spent the next three hours enjoying a marvelous lunch of fish and rice inside the hotel’s lovely dining room, replaying the scenes from South Vietnam in 1972. Sadly, I did not recall that visit to Trang Bang that Uncle Ut had made. “I wish I could remember that time!” I said to him. My mind had likely been busy dealing with so much change, so much transition, so much pain.

This visit will matter all the more to me. I will hang on Uncle Ut’s every word, I thought.

“Oh, Uncle Ut,” I said from time to time that afternoon, “I cannot believe you are here with me. Are you sure it is really you?” To which Uncle Ut simply boasted his winning smile. “It is so good to see you, too.”

Those who had been assigned to keep tabs on Uncle and me that day were brazen. They were not sitting close by in the dining room—they were sitting at our table! I was so irritated that I wanted to shout at them, but I knew better than to resort to that tactic. Instead, I looked at Uncle Ut with pleading eyes and said, “You rescued me, Uncle. I thank you for rescuing me.”

Uncle Ut nodded and grinned and said, “Of course, Kim Phuc, of course.”

There was more to my gaze than mere thanks, and Uncle Ut knew it. I kept repeating the sentiment—“You rescued me . . . you rescued me . . . you rescued me . . .”—subtly changing one word as I went on: “You rescued me . . . rescued me . . . rescue me . . . rescue me.” Please, will you not rescue me now?

When I was nine years old, Uncle Ut’s quick, decisive, and selfless action in Trang Bang had saved my life. But how would he be able to rescue me now, when my every move was monitored? I knew that he would have done anything to help me. But there was nothing to be done, and we both knew it. I was in communism’s grip and would return to the very same bondage the moment Uncle Ut left, the suffering I had been experiencing since day one in Cuba.

Back in the Canadian hotel, I picked up the phone in the hotel room and began to press the numbers to connect me to Uncle Ut.

Please answer, Uncle Ut. Please pick up the phone.

He didn’t answer on my first try. Hours later, at Toan’s urging, I called again. Toan and I were both desperate for some glimmer of hope, so I waited a while and called a third time, and then a fourth, and then a fifth.

To my shock and deep dismay, despite my whispered, impassioned pleas—“Uncle Ut! Where could you be? I have no one else to contact. You are my only way out!”—my one-time rescuer was not available to rescue me this time around. I was devastated. And disappointed in my own lack of preparation. How could I ask Toan to go through with this defection when I had no plan for getting us on our feet? What had I gotten us into? I did feel very glum that day.

Well, what I did not know at the time was that Uncle Ut’s unresponsiveness was a blessing in disguise. If Uncle Ut had answered my calls, his strong sense of journalistic integrity would have compelled him to inform his associates of the big news of my defection and my whereabouts. That was the exact opposite of what I wanted, what we needed.

I wondered what on earth Toan and I would do. We had no clothing, save for what we were wearing. We had a little money for essentials, but not enough to purchase a new wardrobe. The cold, humid weather was wreaking havoc on my scars, and we had no access to medicine that would ease my pain. We knew nobody, we had nothing, and we were completely naïve about life in this foreign place. These worries flashed through my mind, threatening to pull me under, and yet still, my resolve was firm. God has allowed us to make it this far, I reasoned. Surely he will get us out of this mess.

During those days, Toan would observe my enthusiasm and listen to my stubborn insistence that all would work out fine, and say, “Kim, I haven’t slept in many nights, fretting about how we will survive here. What will happen if Vietnamese officials learn that we have left the communist way of life? And yet, I watch you sleep soundly, hour by hour, snoring even, from sleeping so hard. How is this possible? How are you able to feel happy when all around us is sad?”

I would laugh in response—the answer was so obvious to me! “Because, dear husband,” I tried to explain, “we are free, and God is good. He will provide everything we need.”

During our stay in Gander, Toan and I became friends with a Cuban man named Ricardo and his wife, Holga, who were our suitemates at the hotel. As we got to know each other, I asked the couple about their plans. Maybe their plans will inspire ideas for our plans, I thought. The first few times I asked the question, Ricardo simply shrugged his shoulders and kept his mouth shut. But something told me he knew exactly where he and his wife were headed. Ricardo just did not trust me enough to divulge where that was.

Still I persisted, always asking the question politely, even teasingly. Eventually, my wide smile and winsome ways must have worn Ricardo down because one morning when I asked, “Ricardo, where will you go from here?” he sighed, paused, and then said with a hint of resignation, “Toronto.”

Toronto? What was Toronto? It sounded like toronja, Spanish for “grapefruit.” I love grapefruit! Perhaps this was a sign from heaven! If so, I did not want to miss it.

In a matter of moments, Toan and I were huddled over a map of Canada with Ricardo and Holga, listening to the Cubans’ words. Toronto was a major city, had a moderate climate, plentiful job opportunities, and was known to be friendly toward immigrants. “Toan,” I whispered excitedly, “we must get to Toronto. This is the perfect place for us!”

At twelve hundred miles away, Toronto was the farthest place on the list of designated cities that the Canadian government would provide free transportation to; anywhere else, we had to shell out the money ourselves. I did not know this when I begged Toan for us to head to Toronto, but God certainly did.

Once the decision was made, Toan and I felt a sense of relief. However, there was still the question of what we would do once we arrived in Toronto. We would truly be on our own then. Someone gave us the phone number for the Vietnamese Association in Toronto (VAT), a volunteer-based service agency established to support Vietnamese natives who had immigrated to Canada. Certainly they would be able to give us advice on how we could successfully integrate into everyday life. As Toan and I each leaned an ear toward the receiver, we felt sure we would be warmly embraced. God’s favor had carried us this far, and I had no reason to believe he would let us flounder now.

After three or four rings, a VAT representative picked up, prompting Toan to nod at me as if to say, “You talk.”

“Yes,” I started, speaking in Vietnamese, “my husband and I have defected to Canada. We are in Newfoundland now but are planning to come to Toronto soon. We are wondering if . . .”

Before I could say another word, the representative shouted so loudly that I pulled the receiver away from our ears. “You have escaped? You have to go back! You must go home! There is nothing we can do for you. You have made a very poor choice indeed!”

Toan and I were so jarred and terrified by the explosive response that we abruptly hung up the phone. Were we not in a free country now, and yet this is how we were treated? Were the members of the Vietnamese association not our own countrymen? And that is how they chose to act? Now who were we supposed to trust?

Several days later, during a morning prayer time with just my heavenly Father and me, God all but whispered to me, “Kim, I want you to look to me for your provision, not to another human being. I will take care of you. Please, when you find yourself in need, come and talk with me first.”

I rose from that quiet time with God with a germ of an idea running through my mind. Inside my purse, I had the business card of a woman who lived in New York. A few years earlier, she had come to Cuba for an initial meeting in preparation for my making a trip to the United States. In the end, communist officials prohibited me from going.

I was not even sure what organization the woman worked for, but suddenly, as though I had been struck by lightning, I remembered that I had kept her card. Find that card! Perhaps she can help.

I rummaged through my purse until I found the card. Then I picked up the phone in our hotel room and dialed the operator to place a collect call to New York, as I inhaled an anxious breath.

“Hello, this is Merle,” I heard a woman’s voice answer, to which I blurted out, “Merle! This is Kim Phuc. Do you remember me? I have defected to Canada from Cuba, and now my husband and I—we need help! We want to go to Toronto to live . . . can you help us find a way?”

I heard Merle sigh on the other end of the line, which I suppose was a perfectly appropriate response, given the grenade I had just dropped in her lap. She knew what I was also aware of: Any help she offered me could endanger her own well-being. But the fact remained that before Toan and I would be allowed to travel to Toronto on the government’s dime, we needed to provide our immigration officer with a permanent address and a valid phone number of someone in Toronto who would claim responsibility for us.

“Please, Merle,” I said softly. “Will you please help us today?”

Several seconds passed before Merle spoke, but even then her tone was guarded. “Kim,” she said, “I have a friend in Montreal I can connect you with . . .”

“No! No, Merle!” I interjected. “Toan and I cannot go to Montreal. We do not know French. We know at least a little English. Toronto is the place for us. We know that Toronto is it.”

Merle gathered a little more information from me, carefully weighed her thoughts, and ended our phone call with the grace I could only hope for. “Give me two days,” she said with certainty. “In two days, I’ll call you back.”

True to her word, Merle got back to Toan and me two days later, and with wonderful news, no less. “Kim, I am putting you in touch with Ms. Nancy Pocock of Toronto,” Merle announced, explaining that Nancy was known as the “friend of refugees” across the region and that she had a soft spot in her heart for Vietnamese immigrants. “She has worked with people just like you for thirty years, Kim, people who are in need of practical resources so that they can begin their lives anew.”

When I hung up the phone with Merle, my hands were shaking. I had to force them to be still long enough to dial Nancy’s number—collect, of course. This was the answer Toan and I had prayed for! A compassionate Toronto-based person willing to help us get on our feet? I was beside myself with excitement while Toan shook his head in disbelief. God’s favor had prevailed again.

The first few minutes of my conversation with Nancy were awkward since I was not fluent in English and she did not speak Vietnamese. Fortunately, she had a full-time Spanish translator on her staff who joined our conversation and relayed my words from Spanish to English. I conveyed my thanks to Nancy in Spanish for agreeing to host Toan and me, and then we began to go over the specific travel plans. We had been drowning in a vast ocean, but then a rescue boat appeared. Nancy was captaining that marvelous vessel; I could not wait to give her a big hug.

And yet when I phoned Nancy over the next few days prior to our departure for the final details, no one answered. “Toan,” I said reassuringly, staying as calm as I possibly could, “even though we have no one to receive us, we are headed for Toronto.” With that, we were on our way.

As it turned out, God’s solution to our problem of not knowing where to go once we arrived in Toronto began to unfold en route. This was no quick excursion, but rather a multi-vehicle, multi-day affair. In Gander, Toan and I boarded the bus that took us to the ferry for the first part of the trip to New Brunswick. There, we would travel by train for three days, passing through Quebec City and Montreal before reaching our final destination.

It would have made sense for us to keep to ourselves, to simply sit quietly, not causing a stir. We did not know whom to trust, and we did not speak the local language.

And yet at the beginning of that trip, I felt emboldened by the adventure of it all. I knew this escape from communism was going to succeed. So, on the ferry, I found myself engaging a kind-faced woman who happened to be seated nearby.

“You go to Toronto, too?” I asked, to which she nodded vigorously.

“Dah! Yes, yes!” she said.

“Oh! You are from Russia?” I then asked, to which she nodded vigorously once again.

Through a series of warm smiles, one-syllable answers, and a makeshift version of sign language I hoped she could understand, I conveyed our story to the woman. She nodded, saying that she, too, had left her homeland to build a better future in Toronto. It took a half-hour or so to piece together the major parts of our sagas. Finally, I communicated to her that Toan and I were in dire straits. We had a contact in Toronto, but she was not set up to receive us immediately as guests. We needed food to eat during the day and a place to lay our heads at night.

The Russian woman began digging through her purse, and a moment later pulled out a scrap of paper. “Ah!” she said, beaming. “Tam!” Here it is.

Scribbled on the paper was the name and address of a shelter in Scarborough where welfare representatives were available to help immigrants arriving into the city. The woman had been given the information back in Newfoundland and was planning to utilize the service as a first step in her new town. When the ferry docked at Saint John’s in New Brunswick, the woman tugged on my sleeve, inviting Toan and me to share her taxi. Off we flew, into the next chapter of our lives.