Bali 9: The Untold Story by Madonna King, Cindy Wockner Page B
Authors: Madonna King, Cindy Wockner
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families around them, it had become their home.
Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen was born in the Philippines in 1982, and his family mirrored many others in Brisbane’s ethnic community. His parents worked hard, with the aim of giving their children a fresh go in a new country. Nguyen’s parents were keen for him to do well, as individual success was considered important amongBrisbane’s 18 000-strong Vietnamese community. There, accolades were crowed about by proud parents keen to show off their children.
On the other hand, problems were rarely aired. Sometimes, that made life difficult for Vietnamese youths, pulled between the cultural expectations of their parents and the path chosen by many of their young Australian friends. Many lacked a sense of belonging as they struggled to find their place in the melting pot, and were lured by the sense of freedom others in their school classes seem to boast.
Some people in the Vietnamese community suggest that this is how Nguyen felt. And he might have been like that—or he might not. The Vietnamese community is a closed shop, and parents and children don’t usually speak about their dreams and their fears. The expectation of success is what counts.
As a teenager, some say, Nguyen did not boast the potential of his confident and diligent younger sister, whose maturity and respect for others seemed to stand out. The lure of peer pressure was always greater for Nguyen than for his sister, and his focus in high school drifted. His parents might not have chosen the same friends he had at times, but they believed he was doing well enough and that he tried to be a good son at home. He was quiet; never held big, loud parties; seemed respectful of others; and helped out in the family baking business.
Neighbours watched him come and go in his Nissan 2000 SX—it seemed like his best friend. That’s the wayhe treated it. Sometimes the music blaring out of its stereo could be heard along the street, but that didn’t really upset anyone. Tan Duc Thanh always acknowledged his neighbours as he pulled up outside the family home, before disappearing inside to his parents and younger siblings. He’d give them a quick salute, a friendly wave—but he rarely stopped to start a conversation. He was content as long as he could spend as much time as possible with his prized car.
If his parents suspected something was wrong with their son, it was not something they shared with others.
As the crow flies, the Nguyen family lives only a stone’s throw from Kay Danes who, with her husband, Kerry, spent eleven months in a Laos jail after being convicted on trumped-up charges of gem smuggling by a closed court—charges they always strongly denied. The Danes, who were only released and pardoned after intense lobbying by Foreign Minister Alexander Downer, now devote enormous energies to the foreign prisoners’ support service, and Kay has spent time talking and counselling some of those families coming to terms with their children’s black futures.
It was in that capacity that Kay Danes recently went to see the Nguyens and check how they were faring. They had moved out of their home, driven by embarrassment, shame and disappointment, and were staying in the home of an extended family member. But on this day they had ventured back, to their old life in their old street, to spruce up their house. They plannedto sell it. Kay found the Nguyens to be guarded as she approached, not willing to let anyone else into their tormented lives. But she could almost hear their sigh of relief when she explained her role and offered them support. It was an offer, though, that Danes knew probably would never be taken up.
Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen was far from reserved the night he met Michael Czugaj in a Fortitude Valley nightclub. He had met Scott Rush six months earlier, and on this night, while other people in the club tried their hands at karaoke, Rush introduced him to Michael Czugaj. Almost straight up Nguyen asked the
Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen was born in the Philippines in 1982, and his family mirrored many others in Brisbane’s ethnic community. His parents worked hard, with the aim of giving their children a fresh go in a new country. Nguyen’s parents were keen for him to do well, as individual success was considered important amongBrisbane’s 18 000-strong Vietnamese community. There, accolades were crowed about by proud parents keen to show off their children.
On the other hand, problems were rarely aired. Sometimes, that made life difficult for Vietnamese youths, pulled between the cultural expectations of their parents and the path chosen by many of their young Australian friends. Many lacked a sense of belonging as they struggled to find their place in the melting pot, and were lured by the sense of freedom others in their school classes seem to boast.
Some people in the Vietnamese community suggest that this is how Nguyen felt. And he might have been like that—or he might not. The Vietnamese community is a closed shop, and parents and children don’t usually speak about their dreams and their fears. The expectation of success is what counts.
As a teenager, some say, Nguyen did not boast the potential of his confident and diligent younger sister, whose maturity and respect for others seemed to stand out. The lure of peer pressure was always greater for Nguyen than for his sister, and his focus in high school drifted. His parents might not have chosen the same friends he had at times, but they believed he was doing well enough and that he tried to be a good son at home. He was quiet; never held big, loud parties; seemed respectful of others; and helped out in the family baking business.
Neighbours watched him come and go in his Nissan 2000 SX—it seemed like his best friend. That’s the wayhe treated it. Sometimes the music blaring out of its stereo could be heard along the street, but that didn’t really upset anyone. Tan Duc Thanh always acknowledged his neighbours as he pulled up outside the family home, before disappearing inside to his parents and younger siblings. He’d give them a quick salute, a friendly wave—but he rarely stopped to start a conversation. He was content as long as he could spend as much time as possible with his prized car.
If his parents suspected something was wrong with their son, it was not something they shared with others.
As the crow flies, the Nguyen family lives only a stone’s throw from Kay Danes who, with her husband, Kerry, spent eleven months in a Laos jail after being convicted on trumped-up charges of gem smuggling by a closed court—charges they always strongly denied. The Danes, who were only released and pardoned after intense lobbying by Foreign Minister Alexander Downer, now devote enormous energies to the foreign prisoners’ support service, and Kay has spent time talking and counselling some of those families coming to terms with their children’s black futures.
It was in that capacity that Kay Danes recently went to see the Nguyens and check how they were faring. They had moved out of their home, driven by embarrassment, shame and disappointment, and were staying in the home of an extended family member. But on this day they had ventured back, to their old life in their old street, to spruce up their house. They plannedto sell it. Kay found the Nguyens to be guarded as she approached, not willing to let anyone else into their tormented lives. But she could almost hear their sigh of relief when she explained her role and offered them support. It was an offer, though, that Danes knew probably would never be taken up.
Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen was far from reserved the night he met Michael Czugaj in a Fortitude Valley nightclub. He had met Scott Rush six months earlier, and on this night, while other people in the club tried their hands at karaoke, Rush introduced him to Michael Czugaj. Almost straight up Nguyen asked the
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