Catherine Turner

For the second time, I was returning to Vietnam, where I was born 28 years ago.

Waiting in line with me were my Australian parents who adopted me from Vietnam when I was five months old, Basil and Robyn Turner. My father had not been back to the country since 1974, while it was my mother’s first visit.

For me, it was my second time to Vietnam. In November 2001, I searched for my birth mother for three weeks but had no success. I was extremely disheartened but vowed to try again. While I wanted to try and find her again this time, my parents and I all agreed the chances of finding her were very small. We also planned to spend much of our time there sightseeing in central and north Vietnam.

During my first trip to Vietnam, I found a woman who I thought was my mother. She had the same first name as my mother and was the right age, and it seemed to me that we looked alike. However, this woman denied that she had had a baby in 1974.

In hindsight, I realized I wanted so much to believe it was her that I convinced myself it was, and that for some reason she couldn’t admit I was her daughter. The woman was married to a Vietnamese man and had three children. I thought that maybe she couldn’t say anything in case none of them knew about me. I left her feeling rather unsettled but could do no more.

This time, we met up with Doan (pronounced Dwahn), who would be one of three translators who helped us while we were in Ho Chi Minh City. Doan had worked in Australia with one of my sisters at the University of Queensland three years ago, and then returned to Vietnam. When Doan found out I was also Vietnamese, she offered to meet with me if I ever came over. Her involvement in the search would prove to be crucial. Two weeks before my parents and I arrived, Doan’s sister and a friend went back to the woman’s home to try and talk to her some more. Her grandmother was there and she was adamant her daughter was not my mother. She said her daughter lived in Go Vap, a province in the north west of HCMC.

So two days after we arrived in Vietnam, Doan suggested we go to the Go Vap police station to see if we could find out where the woman lived and re-visit her.

My parents stayed in the car while I went with Doan. We had the letter my mother had left with me when she gave me up for adoption, which had her name, date of birth and ID number (like a licence number). It also contained my Vietnamese name and date of birth. In it she explained she could no longer care for me because she was too poor, and my father had been killed in the war.

The first two men we spoke to showed very little interest in our search. They glanced at the letter briefly, then partially went back to the work they’d been doing. It was the exact same reaction I’d received from other policemen during my first visit. However, one of the men pointed us in the direction of another officer. My hopes were already sinking.

A young girl took us into another office, where another two men sat and listened to Doan tell them that we were looking for my birth mother. Of course, they conversed in Vietnamese and so I briefly tuned out, as I thought, We’ve been down this road before. I’ll give him two minutes before he says, nope, can’t help you.

But after a few moments, one of them sat down in front of his computer, which held files and information on every person in the Go Vap district. I started to pay attention again; this was much further than we’d gotten last time. He typed in my mother’s name and date of birth and then, as I held my breath, hit enter. There were a number of people in the district with my mother’s name, Huynh thi Nga, but not the same date of birth. More disappointment.

I thought that was the end of it. But then he went into the next room to make a phone call. Doan told me he was calling a friend of his who worked at a national archives centre, which had a database containing the details of each of the 12 million Vietnamese living in Ho Chi Minh City. Maybe he could help.

After a few minutes, I again started to lose hope. I couldn’t understand what was being said, as Doan continued talking to the second policeman while the phone call was being made. Not being able to speak Vietnamese was extremely isolating.

Just as my mind started to really wander, Doan suddenly grabbed my arm and said, They’ve found someone. She could overhear the first policeman’s conversation, and he was writing down the address of a woman who had my mother’s name and same date of birth – the only match on the computer!

The policeman then obtained the woman’s phone number through directory assistance, and dialed it! The person who answered the phone said the woman was nearby, please call back in five minutes.

This incredible discovery unfolded in the space of a few minutes. It suddenly hit me with terrific force that we could be on the verge of finding my birth mother. I bit my lip to try and stop the tears in front of the policeman. It didn’t work.

When he called the number again, the woman on the other end identified herself, and the policeman told her there was someone at the station called Huynh thi Cam Tu looking for her mother, Nga.

The woman said she had kept the original birth certificate from her daughter’s birth, 28 years ago. The document serial number she read out to the policeman was exactly the same as the one on the photocopied birth certificate I had, which my parents had received when they adopted me. It was a match.

The woman said she would be at the police station in 30 minutes. I immediately left the room and went to collect my parents from the car outside. That’s when I lost control and started really crying. It was actually happening. We had tracked down the woman who gave birth to me.

By the time I reached the car, I was a mess. I opened the door with tears streaming down my face. My parents had been waiting for a long half hour, and when they saw me, instantly assumed the worst. They thought I’d found out my mother was dead.

Instead, I smiled and sobbed,’They found her. She’ll be here in 30 minutes.

Those next 30 minutes waiting with my parents in the police station were the most frightening and exciting moments in my life. I felt like I was going to throw up. My stomach was in knots. I couldn’t stop fidgeting. Fear, hope, anxiety, exhilaration, caution, jubilation. They all collided at once. The situation now was completely out of my control.

My entire life had come down to this moment. All the questions I’d had about myself and my heritage were about to be answered. Who was my father? What nationality was he? Was he married to my mother? How did he die? Do I have any brothers or sisters? Had she tried to look for me?

Before we could meet, the police spoke to her first to verify her identity. Then suddenly, she appeared. A slim, gorgeous, well-dressed woman walked through the door and our eyes met. We both knew. We walked towards each other and both burst into tears as we embraced. It was her. It was my mother.

I couldn’t let go. Here she was, my flesh and blood. As we pulled back to look at each other, she started talking to me – in Vietnamese. She couldn’t speak English; I couldn’t speak Vietnamese. I called Doan over to translate.

Then I introduced my mother to my Australian parents, in what was a truly incredible moment. The woman who had carried me in her womb and cared for me for my first five months of life was now face to face with the two people who had nurtured me since then, cared for me and shaped my Australian identity from a baby to an adult.

After thanking the policemen profusely, we left the station and went to my mother’s home. Her husband of 18 years had come with her to the station and he seemed very moved by the whole occasion. I could tell straight away that he loved her very much.

When we arrived at my mother’s house, a tiny, frail old woman slowly walked towards us. My 88-year-old grandmother. She said little but there were tears in her eyes.

We sat down and my mother spilled the details of her heart-wrenching life during the war.

She met my father when she was 20 and he was 50. He was a Vietnamese man, a Major in the Republic of Vietnam army (the South Vietnamese force). He was also married to another woman.

My mother and father had an affair for a year, and then I was born in a military hospital in 1974. My father’s wife found out about me when I was 10 days old, and demanded my mother hand me over to her. Soldiers were sent to my mother’s home where she lived with my grandmother, to apply pressure. They threatened to poor acid over them if they did not give me up. My mother and grandmother showed true dragon-like spirit and refused. They truly believed that if they handed me over, my father’s wife would kill me. I was humiliating evidence of her husband’s affair.

In addition to that horrifying threat, my mother was very sick when she gave birth to me, and had no breast milk. I had cholera. My mother was very poor. It was a hopeless situation.

She had heard that World Vision was a kind organization with good medical facilities. My mother made the heartbreaking, courageous and entirely selfless decision to give me up for adoption. She says if I didn’t get help from a doctor, I would die.

My mother and grandmother took me to the World Vision babies’ home and handed me over. What none of us ever knew, until now, was that my mother never intended to give me up forever. She thought I could just stay there until the soldiers went away, until I got better and she got some more money. But it did not go according to plan.

During the tail end of the war, the United States donated some money to World Vision to help them run the organization. The Viet Cong subsequently assumed World Vision was an ally of the US and threatened to bomb the babies’ home.

The babies were quickly divided into two groups: those that would probably survive in Vietnam and those that would not. I was among 32 in the latter group. 16 of us would be flown to the United States for adoption; 16 to Australia. The entire babies’ home was then evacuated. The plane carrying the babies destined for the US left Ho Chi Minh City and blew up shortly after take off. There were no survivors.

Everyone’s immediate thought was sabotage. A technical fault was found to be the cause but there was a long delay while the plane to Australia was searched. I arrived safely in Australia, into the arms of my new family.

My mother knew none of this. Four months after she had left me at the babies’ home, she returned with my grandmother to collect me. When she arrived, the place was deserted. I had disappeared without a trace. My mother told me she fainted on the footpath that day.

My father never knew what happened to me. He survived the war but was put into a brutal re-education camp. He died in 1979 of an illness he contracted while imprisoned.

My two half brothers, however, are alive and well! I met them at my mother’s home that evening. I have a 26-year-old younger brother and an older brother who is 30. My mother had told them they had a sister, but she died. They never expected me to walk into their lives!

Together with my three Australian sisters, I have quite a family! Not to mention the two aunts, three nephews and countless cousins! In the blink of an eye, I have inherited a huge extended family, and everyone has welcomed me in true Vietnamese style.

The search for my identity is over. I feel complete. I have wondered for years about my background, and have not always been entirely comfortable being the odd one out whilst growing up in Australia. Now, I am incredibly proud of my country and my ancestors. I am completely at peace with myself and my dual identity. It has been a miraculous homecoming.

My next challenge: learn the language. My mother and I have a lot of catching up to do.