50 YEARS OF VIETNAMESE SETTLEMENT DOWN UNDER: A BETTER AUSTRALIA AND ASPIRATIONAL DEMOCRATIC VIETNAM – SYDNEY NGUYEN

On 30 April 1975, the democratic government of South Vietnam collapsed as the North Vietnamese army captured Saigon. Under North Vietnamese control, thousands of South Vietnamese citizens were arrested and put in re-education camps leading to a mass exodus of refugees. With the election of the Liberal/National government of Malcolm Fraser in December 1975,  Australia agreed to resettle its share of Vietnam-born refugees under a refugee resettlement plan. The resettlement of thousands of South Vietnamese has been one of the most successful migration stories in Australia’s history. To commemorate the 50 years of settlement in Australia of these Vietnamese refugees, The Sydney Institute asked Quang Luu, former board director of Austcare and former head of SBS Radio and a Vietnamese refugee himself, and Sydney Nguyen, a second generation Vietnamese Australian and Sydney lawyer, to address The Sydney Institute on Monday 19 May 2025.

50 YEARS OF VIETNAMESE SETTLEMENT DOWN UNDER: A BETTER AUSTRALIA AND ASPIRATIONAL DEMOCRATIC VIETNAM

SYDNEY NGUYEN

I’d like to begin by acknowledging the Traditional Custodians of the land on which we gather today — the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation — and pay my respects to Elders past and present. I extend that respect to any Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people joining us tonight.

Thank you to Gerard Henderson and The Sydney Institute for the opportunity to speak on this significant anniversary. And thank you, Mr Quang Luu, for sharing your story. It’s an honour to share this stage with someone whose journey represents the first wave of Vietnamese Australians. Your achievements and contributions have paved the way for generations like mine.

30 April 1975 was the end of the Vietnam War — but for the Vietnamese people, it was the beginning of a very long and painful chapter. My parents were born just before the war and grew up in the beautiful city of Huế, in central Vietnam. Hue is a place known for its beauty and imperial buildings, but it was also one of the cities that was heavily impacted during the war. They lived through the entire war and experienced the devastation it left behind.

After the fall of Saigon, my parents described life as very poor and very bleak. They’ve described those years as some of the hardest — there were harsh restrictions, limited freedoms, no chance to finish their schooling, few ways to earn a living and when they did try to make extra money by selling food they would be punished and their things would be confiscated. They had to ration food and lived in constant fear of surveillance or punishment under the new communist regime.

So, in the late 1980s, about twelve years after the end of the Vietnam war, my parents made the decision to flee their homeland. They were part of the later wave of boat people to escape. In the middle of the night, each carrying a small bag, they quietly said goodbye to their families and began their journey north. In my mum’s bag she some items of clothing, a rosary and a few family photos — she said it was something to remember home by, and something to keep her strong as she did not know where she was going and if she would ever return.

In a group of about ten people, they paid a smuggler and trusted him with their lives to take them out of Vietnam safely. They travelled up north through the jungle and mountain ranges near the Vietnam–China border. Along the way in the jungle, their group was ambushed by bandits holding machetes wanting gold and money before they would let them go. Before leaving, my mother had sewn a small piece of gold into the lining of her bra, sensing something like this might happen. The bandits stripped and searched everyone got away with some money. Miraculously, the gold wasn’t found. When my dad tells this story he said he didn’t care if they had taken all the gold and all our money just as long as the women were not harmed. And, thankfully, no one was harmed.

Eventually, they made it to China, where they boarded a small wooden fishing boat—one never meant to brave the open waters of the South China Sea. They travelled along the coast stopping only when they were desperate to replenish their food or water, always cautious to avoid the authorities or they would be killed or sent back to Vietnam where they would be punished or killed. The same smuggler that had taken them through the jungle was also the person that drove boat, spoke Chinese and he had connections on shore that helped them on land.

Out at sea it was a nightmare, the waves crashed against the boat relentlessly. Water spilled in constantly, and everyone took turns scooping it out as quickly as they could with buckets or bare hands. Many suffered from seasickness, vomiting over the sides. When storms happened, the boat was tossed around violently. People clung to each other, sobbing, certain that this was the end. My mum told me that she didn’t cry during those moments—though many around her did. Instead, she prayed with one hand holding the rosary – she left her fate into God’s hand because there was nothing more she could do in this moment. Even now, when my parents speak about the sea journey, they are in disbelief that they survived.

Somehow, they made it to Hong Kong in 1988. They spent the next two years in a detention camp, living and working, waiting for a country to accept them. Then, in 1990, while my mum was heavily pregnant with me, they received the news — they had been accepted for resettlement in Australia.

My parents arrived in this country in their late 30s — the age I am now — with no English, no qualifications, no money, and a newborn on its way. And, again, somehow they found a way.

My dad took labouring jobs — anything that would support the family. Eventually, both my parents learned how to sew. And they never stopped. For as long as I can remember, they worked seven days a week from morning to night. I can still remember falling asleep to the sound of a sewing and hemming machine. Despite their long hours, they were always there for me and my siblings. They did school drop-offs and pick-ups. They took us to extracurricular activities. We had weekly family movie nights. We never had much, but we never felt like we were missing anything.

As we were growing up, my parents used to say they didn’t know how to repay Australia for the kindness of giving them a new home. But they were giving back — by working hard, by raising us kids, and being part of the Australian community. Collectively with so many other Vietnamese refugees, they opened small businesses, built strong communities, and brought life to suburbs like Cabramatta and Footscray — places where multiculturalism is now celebrated. They raised us to value integrity, humility, and gratitude. Even my naming me Sydney was their way of saying thank you to the city and the country that took them in.

As a second-generation, Vietnamese Australian, I grew up juggling two worlds — two cultures, two languages, and two different sets of expectations. At home, I was raised with traditional Vietnamese values: respect for elders, humility, putting family before myself, and never questioning authority. But outside, I lived in a very Westernised Australian society that celebrated being independent, self-expression and personal choice. In school and with my friends, you were encouraged to speak up, be assertive, chase your dreams — even if they clashed with family expectations. I was expected to understand both and often had to be the bridge between my family and the outside world, whether I wanted to be or not. This wasn’t always easy. I was trying to be the “good Vietnamese daughter” at home while learning to stand up for myself in a world that rewarded confidence and self-advocacy.

As I got older, I started to see how much of my parents’ unspoken trauma shaped the way they raised us. They had come from a place where safety was never guaranteed, so they tried to control what they could with me. They were cautious, always saving, always preparing for the worst. They were strict, pushed us hard with school and work because, to them, success was the only way to survive. Education meant stability and being safe. It meant we wouldn’t have to struggle the way they did.

Of course, that came with pressure. I grew up feeling anxious about failure, terrified of letting them down, ashamed even when I didn’t do well at school. But with time, I’ve come to understand that they were just doing the best they could — trying to give us everything they never had. They were figuring it out as they went, without the tools, the language, or the support to make sense of what they’d been through. They went through so much so we wouldn’t have to. I’ve never had to fear for my life, or flee my home, or go hungry. I’ve had the privilege of growing up safe, with opportunities they never dreamed of. And now, I get to raise my children in that same safety — with freedom, choice and hope.

Watching my parents build their lives from nothing has taught me about resilience, about grit and about gratitude. For so many of us from my generation, we honour our parents’ sacrifices not just with our careers or achievements, but with how we live our lives, the values we teach our children and how we serve the community.

For me, honouring my parent’s sacrifice meant more than just working hard or getting a good job — it meant giving back to the community I grew up in. Throughout my life, I’ve volunteered where I could, and I was proud to be elected Vice President of Culture and Education for the Vietnamese Community – NSW Chapter. During that time, I had the chance to learn more about our culture and history, and to create events and initiatives that helped preserve and celebrate it. I worked to get young people involved to help them reconnect with their roots and feel proud of where they come from.

In that role, to understand just how much pain the first generation still carries from the war and their journey here. It became clear that many are still working through it just like my parents. I also met and worked alongside so many second-generation Vietnamese Australians who felt the same way I did — proud of their background but still trying to make sense of it all. I realised that many in our community are still struggling to understand each other but are determined to work together to bridge that gap.

That experience inspired me. After our term ended, my husband and I, along with our friend and fellow committee member Tu Le, co-founded a social enterprise focused on empowering young people to create positive social change — especially in South West Sydney, where we all grew up. It’s a place that’s incredibly culturally diverse, and we wanted young people from the area to recognise that their upbringing — gives them a unique perspective and drive. We wanted them to know that they can channel that into anything they set their minds to. And if you’ve been given the chance to succeed, we believe you also have a responsibility to give back. For us, this work has been about more than serving the community — it’s been about honouring where we came from and helping others do the same. It is in this spirit of community and remembrance that we honour 50 years since the fall of Saigon. We honour the lives lost in war and at sea and We remember those who fought and those who fled.

But this anniversary is also a celebration — of survival, of our resilience and of everything the Vietnamese people have built in Australia since. From the humblest beginnings, our community has grown into one that contributes in every field — in skilled trades, business, education, medicine, the arts, and public service. And we are still growing, and will continue to give back.

Tonight, I stand here as the daughter of Vietnamese refugees — a proud Vietnamese Australian. I’ve come to see how powerful it is to carry two cultures, two languages, and two sets of values. What once felt like a tension has become a source of strength. It keeps me grounded and hopeful about where I’m headed.

And to Australia — thank you. Thank you for opening your arms. Thank you for believing in the resilience of refugees. Thank you for giving our families the chance to begin again with hope, dignity, and belonging. We will never forget.