The gift of tongues
SBS Radio began 25 years ago today, a fateful time for the Vietnamese refugee who would one day be its boss, writes Deborah Cameron.

On a bamboo boat no bigger than a door and waxed to keep the water out, a frightened Vietnamese man tuned a small short-wave radio. Miraculously, above the rising sound of the wind in the South China Sea came the voice of Gough Whitlam.

"I was in the middle of nowhere between life and death and listening to Mr Whitlam," Tuong Quang Luu recalls. "He was at a Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting talking about Rhodesia [now Zimbabwe] and Ian Smith and I was ... inches from death. It was so unreal."

It was 1975, a catastrophic year for Whitlam, too. Luu, a 34-year-old diplomat, had taken to the bamboo boat with two other men. It had no deck, its sides were a bare 10cm above the water line and it was unsteerable. Rain was pouring and Luu was bailing it out by hand. It was, more or less, like being cast into the ocean in a basket. The three men, all from the South, thought they would be safer in the boat than in Vietnam. "It was desperation, not bravery," said Luu.

Today, Luu sits in an elegant office at the top of a small, influential ethnic media empire. Fittingly, in a radio job that seemed destined to be his. "The best thing about radio is that it is for the masses but it is one to one," he said.

"When I was there totally in isolation with my two companions, I was able to connect with the whole world by listening to that radio program."

He has never forgotten the experience. As head of SBS Radio - launched 25 years ago today, at about the same time as he cast off in his rickety boat - Luu runs a network that broadcasts in 68 languages. But as complicated as managing it can be, Luu's broadcasting philosophy was shaped on that grim day 25 years ago: radio is a lifeline. "I was totally in isolation and the radio kept me informed," he said.

His little craft had drifted into international waters, there were no birds at all and the ocean was so deep that there were whales spouting. "I had never lived the life of a fisherman so I did not know how to row," Luu said.

"But even had I known, I would not have been able because the boat was never meant to be in the middle of nowhere in the high seas."

A couple of weeks later Luu was in an immigration queue at Sydney Airport ready to resume life but, while lost at sea, he and his two exhausted 60-year-old companions thought that they might die. In a bleak moment, Luu wished he'd put a final message in a bottle for his family. "That was when I was really fearful for my life," he said.

At dawn 36 hours after Luu and his companions had set out, five fishing boats came into view but four sailed past. The fifth, a Thai prawn trawler, saw their frantic waving and stopped. Within days, under house arrest in a fishing village, he cabled his family: "I am still alive and in Thailand."

Refugees, by definition, are never prepared for their ordeal but Luu was not without resources. Hidden in his small bag was $US1,000 ($1,698) and a diplomatic passport with a handwritten Australian visa, among the last issued by the Embassy in Saigon on April 25, the day it was closed and the diplomats evacuated.

Luu had been a diplomat posted to South Vietnam's missions in London, New York and finally Canberra, from where he was recalled in 1974. Leaving his wife and five young children in Australia so they could see out the school year, he went back to Saigon.

"I did not anticipate in late 1974, when I returned to Saigon, that South Vietnam would collapse in April 1975, practically six months later," he said. "No-one anticipated that."

On April 30, with the communist invasion forces on the streets of Saigon, Luu told his staff he'd failed to persuade the US to evacuate them. "I apologised and said that from now on it was everyone for him or herself."

He left his tie and coat on his desk and walked out of the ministry in shirtsleeves, looking like one of the crowd. There was a radio broadcast asking him to report for an official handover, which he ignored.

Instead he fled by motorbike, braving checkpoints and searches, hitching a ride on a fruit truck to the coast, hiring a fishing boat and, finally, buying the waxed-rattan raft and two umbrellas he thought might double as sails.

Life back in Australia, by comparison, has been peaceful. He was allowed to stay and studied law at the Australian National University before gravitating again to public service. Luu moved to Sydney in 1987 and was made State Director for NSW of the Federal Department of Immigration and Ethnic Affairs and then two years later became the head of SBS Radio.

"[It] is a double anniversary for me," Luu said, "happy and sad. The fall of Saigon was sad but the 25th anniversary of SBS Radio is very happy. And it is amazing that both events took place within weeks of one another in 1975."

-----------------------end

Comment:
As this forum ebbs & flows be reminded that we have among us people who treasure freedom and who silently make contribution to our community. This is one such story and I'm sure there are so many more out there.

Regards from OZ

-- Pieter (zaadz@icisp.net.au), June 08, 2000

Answers

>Whoopsie - Too early & yet a coffee shy

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The gift of tongues
SBS Radio began 25 years ago today, a fateful time for the Vietnamese refugee who would one day be its boss, writes Deborah Cameron.

On a bamboo boat no bigger than a door and waxed to keep the water out, a frightened Vietnamese man tuned a small short-wave radio. Miraculously, above the rising sound of the wind in the South China Sea came the voice of Gough Whitlam.

"I was in the middle of nowhere between life and death and listening to Mr Whitlam," Tuong Quang Luu recalls. "He was at a Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting talking about Rhodesia [now Zimbabwe] and Ian Smith and I was ... inches from death. It was so unreal."

It was 1975, a catastrophic year for Whitlam, too. Luu, a 34-year-old diplomat, had taken to the bamboo boat with two other men. It had no deck, its sides were a bare 10cm above the water line and it was unsteerable. Rain was pouring and Luu was bailing it out by hand. It was, more or less, like being cast into the ocean in a basket. The three men, all from the South, thought they would be safer in the boat than in Vietnam. "It was desperation, not bravery," said Luu.

Today, Luu sits in an elegant office at the top of a small, influential ethnic media empire. Fittingly, in a radio job that seemed destined to be his. "The best thing about radio is that it is for the masses but it is one to one," he said.

"When I was there totally in isolation with my two companions, I was able to connect with the whole world by listening to that radio program."

He has never forgotten the experience. As head of SBS Radio - launched 25 years ago today, at about the same time as he cast off in his rickety boat - Luu runs a network that broadcasts in 68 languages. But as complicated as managing it can be, Luu's broadcasting philosophy was shaped on that grim day 25 years ago: radio is a lifeline. "I was totally in isolation and the radio kept me informed," he said.

His little craft had drifted into international waters, there were no birds at all and the ocean was so deep that there were whales spouting. "I had never lived the life of a fisherman so I did not know how to row," Luu said.

"But even had I known, I would not have been able because the boat was never meant to be in the middle of nowhere in the high seas."

A couple of weeks later Luu was in an immigration queue at Sydney Airport ready to resume life but, while lost at sea, he and his two exhausted 60-year-old companions thought that they might die. In a bleak moment, Luu wished he'd put a final message in a bottle for his family. "That was when I was really fearful for my life," he said.

At dawn 36 hours after Luu and his companions had set out, five fishing boats came into view but four sailed past. The fifth, a Thai prawn trawler, saw their frantic waving and stopped. Within days, under house arrest in a fishing village, he cabled his family: "I am still alive and in Thailand."

Refugees, by definition, are never prepared for their ordeal but Luu was not without resources. Hidden in his small bag was $US1,000 ($1,698) and a diplomatic passport with a handwritten Australian visa, among the last issued by the Embassy in Saigon on April 25, the day it was closed and the diplomats evacuated.

Luu had been a diplomat posted to South Vietnam's missions in London, New York and finally Canberra, from where he was recalled in 1974. Leaving his wife and five young children in Australia so they could see out the school year, he went back to Saigon.

"I did not anticipate in late 1974, when I returned to Saigon, that South Vietnam would collapse in April 1975, practically six months later," he said. "No-one anticipated that."

On April 30, with the communist invasion forces on the streets of Saigon, Luu told his staff he'd failed to persuade the US to evacuate them. "I apologised and said that from now on it was everyone for him or herself."

He left his tie and coat on his desk and walked out of the ministry in shirtsleeves, looking like one of the crowd. There was a radio broadcast asking him to report for an official handover, which he ignored.

Instead he fled by motorbike, braving checkpoints and searches, hitching a ride on a fruit truck to the coast, hiring a fishing boat and, finally, buying the waxed-rattan raft and two umbrellas he thought might double as sails.

Life back in Australia, by comparison, has been peaceful. He was allowed to stay and studied law at the Australian National University before gravitating again to public service. Luu moved to Sydney in 1987 and was made State Director for NSW of the Federal Department of Immigration and Ethnic Affairs and then two years later became the head of SBS Radio.

"[It] is a double anniversary for me," Luu said, "happy and sad. The fall of Saigon was sad but the 25th anniversary of SBS Radio is very happy. And it is amazing that both events took place within weeks of one another in 1975."

-----------------------end

Comment:
As this forum ebbs & flows be reminded that we have among us people who treasure freedom and who silently make contribution to our community. This is one such story and I'm sure there are so many more out there.

Regards from OZ

-- Pieter (zaadz@icisp.net.au), June 08, 2000.

Quite a story. Thank you, Pieter.

-- David L (bumpkin@dnet.net), June 08, 2000.

Hi Pieter, another good one is WWW.Libertyworksradio.com

-- KoFE (your@town.USA), June 09, 2000.

Thank you again, Pieter.

I've had a love affair with AM radio which goes back to early childhood. I received a red, Realistic brand transistor radio for my fifth birthday, June 9, 1969. I was a huge baseball fan & this was the summer of the Miracle Mets.

Id listen to night baseball games & music with the radio under my pillow, a habit which has lasted until this day. A few years later I became a steady listener to the Doctor Demento Show, broadcast Sundays at midnight. Demento played Spike Jones-style music spoofs & was the one to give Weird Al Yankovic his start.

I purchased a small AM/FM/Shortwave radio a decade ago. Shortwave is a series of radio frequency bands probably unfamiliar to most Americans. This is a shame for on it one can tune in to the world as Luu did during his escape.

Times of depression & despair were endured in part through the joyful imaginings of a child prodded by distant voices made manifest through a tiny speaker. I urge you all to remove the television from your childs bedroom & replace it with a small, red, transistor radio. Youll be doing him/her a real favor.

Best,

-- Bingo1 (howe9@shentel.net), June 09, 2000.