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The strong breeze blew all moisture from my eyes as the boat shook against the waves like a fish in a van. Mum whispered, “Keep looking forward.” I tried, but all I saw was the vast void of an oceans horison blending together.

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The strong breeze blew all moisture from my eyes as the boat shook against the waves like a fish in a van. Mum whispered, “Keep looking forward.” I tried, but all I saw was the vast void of an oceans horison blending together.

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The ocean was unfriendly, yet it was better than being back home. I would sit there in the boat on that hard wooden floor listening to the waves beating against the sides as though trying to tell me something important. Everything seemed to have fear attached to it, but all I could think about was safety.

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The boat tossed around so violently that I feared that the entire sea intended to consume us all. The waves were like thunder as they crashed into the sides of our boat. I sat beside Mai and attempted to remain calm, despite the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm me.

I longed for my homeland, yet I couldn’t return, for the place felt far too dangerous. My father assured me that we’d have another chance at life in Australia  somewhere we wouldn’t live in fear. We spent nights aboard the boat listening quietly to the stories of those who’d been forced to leave their homes. Sometimes they would cry silently, believing themselves unnoticed.

It was most difficult to wait. To wait for our arrival. To wait to see whether or not this journey would ever end.

Then, early one morning, I saw the distant outline of land. Everyone sprang up to their feet, some smiling and some praying. I felt something for the first time in weeks that wasn’t fear.

I felt hope.

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"The hardest choice I ever had to make was letting my daughter go. I knew the journey was dangerous, but I also knew she deserved opportunities she could never have here. Every day I wondered if she was safe, and every day I hoped I had made the right decision."

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The boat rocks roughly beneath me. Every crashing wave feels like it could be my last, but i keep hoping for a safer future.

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Mai’s mum keeps an old family photo from before they fled their home. She looks at it whenever she misses her old life.

“I remember my children laughing outside our house before the war began. Leaving home was painful but I wanted my family to have a safer future. Even on the boat hope kept us going.

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The sea roars. Bodies press close. I whisper my name so I don’t forget it. Somewhere beyond the waves, safety waits.

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The sea has a way of swallowing sound. Out here, even my own breathing feels small. I sit at the edge of the boat, knees pulled to my chest, watching the horizon blur into the sky. I never imagined leaving home like this quietly, quickly, with only the clothes on my back and the memory of my mother’s voice to guide me.

I close my eyes and picture our village: the smell of lemongrass drifting from the kitchen, my father’s laughter echoing across the rice fields, the warm dust beneath my feet. Those memories feel like another lifetime now. The ocean has replaced everything, its salt, its cold, its endlessness.

Around me, bodies press close. Children cry softly, their mothers whispering promises they’re not sure they can keep. The engine coughs like an old man struggling for breath. Every shudder of the boat reminds me how fragile this journey is. I pretend to be brave for the younger ones, but fear claws at my ribs.

Last night, when the waves rose high enough to hide the sky, I almost let go. Almost. But then I saw Mai clutching her mother’s scarf, knuckles white, eyes wide with terror. Something inside me steadied.

If she could hold on, so could I.

Hope isn’t loud. It’s a quiet decision, one you make again and again, even when the sea tries to pull it from you.

This morning, a thin line of gold cracked across the water. Sunrise. If light can find us here, maybe safety can too.

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The boat never stopped moving. Waves crashed against the sides while people around me prayed, cried, or sat in silence. I remember thinking there would be no end to the journey, as if the sea had swallowed time itself. I stayed close to my mother. She looked exhausted, thinner every day, but she still tried to comfort me, even when fear was written across her face. I could feel my own fear growing each day, even when I tried to hide it from her. The heat was unbearable. The smell of saltwater, fuel, sweat, and sickness clung to the crowded boat. Food and clean water disappeared quickly. I tried not to complain because I could see how worried my mother already was. Everyone carried their own fear, but nobody knew how to escape it.

When I became weak and unwell, Mai helped look after me. On the boat, strangers slowly became something closer to family. In a place filled with uncertainty, small acts of kindness mattered more than anything. I thought about home constantly, familiar streets, ordinary routines, and the life we had been forced to leave behind. Sometimes I closed my eyes and imagined I was still there, just to escape the reality for a moment. My mother reminded me that we were travelling toward safety, toward the possibility of a future without fear or violence.

But out on the endless ocean, that future felt impossibly far away. There was only the crowded boat, the dark water surrounding us, and the fragile hope that somehow we would survive the journey and reach a place where we could begin again. I often wondered if hope alone would be enough to keep us alive until then.

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The boat never stopped moving. Every wave made the walls creak, and the people around me held their breath. I stayed close to my mother while we sat crowded beside strangers in the dark. The air smelled like saltwater, sweat, and fuel. Some people prayed quietly while others stared at the floor, too exhausted to speak. I tried to be brave, but deep down I was scared of what might happen to us.

At first, I thought the journey would be exciting, like an adventure across the ocean. But after the storm came, nobody smiled anymore. The food became soaked with seawater, our drinking water started running out, and more people became sick each day. I could hear coughing during the night and crying during the day. Sometimes I saw fear in my mother’s face even when she tried to hide it from me. Seeing her afraid made me realise how serious our situation was.

Mai stayed with us often. She helped my mother and tried to make me feel safe whenever I became frightened. When I grew weaker, she carried me above the deck so I could breathe fresh air and see the ocean stretching endlessly around us. I remember the cold wind hitting my face and the sound of waves crashing against the boat. Looking out at the water, I wondered if we would ever reach our new home.

Then one morning, people started shouting because they could finally see land. Everyone cried with relief and hugged each other. I wanted to stand up and look too, but my body felt too weak to move. Part of me felt happy that we had made it, but I was also afraid I would not get to see the place we had risked everything for. The last thing I remember was hearing my mother calling my name while the boat drifted closer to Australia.

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Night swallows us whole, Salt burns my eyes. I clutch hope like a lifejacket, counting waves, praying land remembers my name.

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On the boat, time does not move forward it only circles the nights and days blur as one. The engine coughs, the sea answers, and we wait. I sit close to Mai so she won’t be afraid, even though my hands are shaking too. I tell myself to be strong, because strength is the only thing I can still give.

The boat is crowded, but loneliness fills the space between us. Everyone carries a story they cannot finish yet. At night, the water turns black and endless, and I think about home not the place, but the feeling of belonging. I wonder if that feeling still exists for me.

Hunger makes us quiet. Fear makes us listen to the nonstop chitter of the waves and wind, to every change in the dark. I watch adults pretend they are calm, my mother cries at nights but faces the sun like the earth gave her something new. I learn how silence can be louder than screaming.

Sometimes hope feels foolish. Sometimes it is the only thing keeping the boat afloat. I imagine land like a promise whispered far away and in a language i dont understand. I imagine a future where i can live in a country without fear.

This journey takes away my childhood, but it gives me something else: resilience and hope for more. Even on this fragile boat, I learn that surviving is an act of courage, and remembering who you are is an act of resistance.

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“I still remember the day I told Mai she had to leave Vietnam. She was only sixteen, but I could already see how hopeless life was becoming after the war. I packed her small bag carefully, trying not to cry while she watched me. The morning air felt heavy and humid, and the sound of distant waves drifted across the shore where families gathered to say their goodbyes. When I hugged her, I held on for as long as I could, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair and listening to her quiet voice tell me everything would be alright. I told her Australia would give her opportunities that our country no longer could.

After my husband returned from the re-education camp blind, everything changed for our family. Work was difficult to find, food became scarce, and fear surrounded everyday life. I knew Mai deserved more than the future waiting for her in Vietnam, even if sending her away broke my heart.

Every night after she left, I worried constantly about the journey across the ocean. I imagined overcrowded boats, violent storms, hunger, and sickness. Sometimes I could not sleep because I kept wondering if she was safe or if I would ever see her again. A mother is supposed to protect her child, but all I could do was hope that strangers would help her survive.

Years later, I still think about that goodbye. It was the hardest decision I have ever made, but when I think about the life Mai built in Australia, I know it was also the right one.”

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"The boat crashed beneath us as waves slammed from side to side. I held Mai’s hand and prayed the sea would show mercy on us."

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I told Mai to be strong, even though I was terrified myself. Sending your daughter away across the sea is not something a mother ever prepares for. But we were living in a time where staying felt just as dangerous as leaving.

I packed what little I could give her,  a few clothes, memories of home, small pieces of advice, and most importantly, hope. I hope that she will survive the journey. I hope that she would reach a place where life would be safer and where she could have opportunities we never had.

After she left, every day felt heavy. I still remember standing there long after she disappeared from sight, unable to move as if my body had forgotten how. The silence she left behind felt louder than anything I had ever heard. I would wake up thinking about her and go to sleep wondering the same things. Was she eating enough? Was she cold? Was she frightened? A mother’s worry does not stop just because distance separates you. It follows you everywhere.

People often talk about courage as if it is a choice. For families like ours, courage was not about bravery in the usual sense. It was about making impossible decisions when there were no good options left. We did not leave because we wanted something better in a simple way. We left because survival required it.

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I told my children not to look back as we left our hometown. The lights of our home faded into the dark, and I wondered if we would ever return. We packed only what we could carry, but it still felt like leaving everything behind.

Mai held my hand the entire journey, trying to stay strong for her brother. She whispered, asking if the sea was angry with us. I didn’t know how to answer, so I just pulled her closer and told her we had to keep going.

Every night on that boat, I counted my children instead of stars. I didn’t leave for a better life — I left so my children could live without fear.

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I held Mai against my chest as the waves moved around us. I told her to be strong and that I wasn’t afraid, even when I though I wanted to cry. All I wanted was to keep her warm, to keep her believing that the sea would not take everything from us. I told her stories of home so she would remember who she is.

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The sun burned my skin. Waves shook our boat. I held my sister close praying the sea would carry us to safety.

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"Fushhh" the sea roars under us. Fear tightens my chest, yet a little hope rises to, whispering that maybe we’ll live to see land and people again.

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Create a story based on Mai's mother or father. Find or draw a photo, and write a short quote or memory you think they would share (less than 250 words). Look at the Humans of Australia website for ideas.

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Vietnam Archives - New Humans of Australia

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Celebrating the stories of refugees and migrants who call Australia home

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Imagine that you are like Mai, an asylum seeker on a boat. Capture your experience in a 140-character X (Twitter) fiction.

X (Twitter) is a social networking site that allows users to send and read short 140-character messages called “tweets”. X (Twitter) fiction aims to tell a story in just 140 characters.

Examples:

Jeffrey Archer: "It's a miracle he survived," said the doctor. "It was God's will," said Mrs Schicklgruber. "What will you call him?" "Adolf," she replied.

David Lodge: "Your money or your life!" "I'm sorry, my dear, but you know it would kill me to lose my money," said the partially deaf miser to his wife.

Ian Rankin: I opened the door to our flat, and you were standing there, cleaver raised. Somehow, you'd found out about the photos. My jaw hit the floor.

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I know I said that if I lived to 100 I'd not regret what happened last night. But I woke up this morning and a century had passed. Sorry.

James Meek

He said he was leaving her. "But I love you," she said. "I know," he said. "Thanks. It's what gave me the strength to love somebody else."

Jackie Collins

She smiled, he smiled back, it was lust at first sight, but then she discovered he was married, too bad it couldn't go anywhere.

Ian Rankin

I opened the door to our flat and you were standing there, cleaver raised. Somehow you'd found out about the photos. My jaw hit the floor.

Blake Morrison

Blonde, GSOH, 28. Great! Ideal mate! Fix date. Tate. Nervous wait. She's late. Doh, just my fate. Wrong candidate. Blond - and I'm straight.

David Lodge

"Your money or your life!" "I'm sorry, my dear, but you know it would kill me to lose my money," said the partially deaf miser to his wife.

AM Homes

Sometimes we wonder why sorrow so heavy when happiness is like helium.

Sophie Hannah

I had land, money. For each rejected novel I built one house. Ben had to drown because he bought Plot 15. My 15th book? The victim drowned.

Andrew O'Hagan

Clyde stole a lychee and ate it in the shower. Then his brother took a bottle of pills believing character is just a luxury. God. The twins.

AL Kennedy

It's good that you're busy. Not great. Good, though. But the silence, that's hard. I don't know what it means: whether you're OK, if I'm OK.

Jeffrey Archer

"It's a miracle he survived," said the doctor. "It was God's will," said Mrs Schicklgruber. "What will you call him?" "Adolf," she replied.

Anne Enright

The internet ate my novel, but this is much more fun #careerchange #nolookingback oh but #worldsosilentnow Hey!

Patrick Neate

ur profile pic: happy - smiling & smoking. ur last post: "home!" ur hrt gave out @35. ur profile undeleted 6 months on. ur epitaph: "home!"

Hari Kunzru

I'm here w/ disk. Where ru? Mall too crowded to see. I don't feel safe. What do you mean you didn't send any text? Those aren't your guys?

SJ Watson

She thanks me for the drink, but says we're not suited. I'm a little "intense". So what? I followed her home. She hasn't seen anything yet.

Helen Fielding

OK. Should not have logged on to your email but suggest if going on marriedaffair.com don't use our children's names as password.

Simon Armitage

Blaise Pascal didn't tweet and neither did Mark Twain. When it came to writing something short & sweet neither Blaise nor Mark had the time.

Charlie Higson

Jack was sad in the orphanage til he befriended a talking rat who showed him a hoard of gold under the floor. Then the rat bit him & he died.

India Knight

Soften, my arse. I'm a geezer. I'm a rock-hard little bastard. Until I go mushy overnight for you, babe. #pears

Jilly Cooper

Tom sent his wife's valentine to his mistress and vice versa. Poor Tom's a-cold and double dumped.

Rachel Johnson

Rose went to Eve's house but she wasn't there. But Eve's father was. Alone. One thing led to another. He got 10 years.

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Twitter fiction: 21 authors try their hand at 140-character novels

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We challenged well-known writers - from Ian Rankin and Helen Fielding to Jeffrey Archer and Jilly Cooper - to come up with a story of up to 140 characters. This is their stab at Twitter fiction

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Plan a short, personal story from Truong’s perspective on the boat. It must be under 250 words. Watch the Digital Storytelling 2015 video for ideas.