Hannah Temple

Hannah Temple is Canadian Chinese and a joyful warrior. Her past experiences as a child refugee escaping Vietnam, transitioning to a new country, learning English as a third language, surviving abuse, growing up as a minority in Victoria, B.C., and living with chronic health issues, has created a depth of resilience and empathy to connect with others, share her story and help them tell their story. Behind every face, there is a story!

Hannah recently completed her Master of Arts in Professional Communication at Royal Roads University, where her final research project was an autoethnography titled, Về (meaning “home” in Vietnamese). Her last project explored how the daily gathering around the dinner table grounded her in transition to Canada, personal trials and ultimately gave her a sense of belonging and cultural identity. 

Hannah's family's escape from Vietnam inspired the play “We the Same” written by Sangeeta Wylie. This play was produced and presented in 2021 at Ruby Slippers Theater in Vancouver, B.C. In 2015, Hannah raised $50K to set up an endowed bursary called the New Canadian Bursary at Ambrose University. With preference given to a refugee, each year, a new Canadian student is awarded this bursary to commemorate the sponsors that made it possible for Hannah and her family to come to Canada.

Hannah is married to her best friend, Ed, and they have three children together - Elijah, Madalyn, and Evangeline. Hannah has worked in higher education for over ten  years and currently works at the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology as the Pathways, Transfer, and Articulation Coordinator. 

Hannah’s Story

I was born shortly after the Vietnam War, the 5th child and the youngest of three girls. My mother recalls feeling relieved when Saigon fell on April 30, 1975, as that meant that my father would no longer have to hide from being conscripted to the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN). My mother was hopeful that Ho Chi Minh would unify all of Vietnam with love and harmony. After all, North and South Vietnam had been one country before. She realized, soon enough, that was not to be the case. 

My father was sent to a re-education camp. He had to disclose what his previous work included and if he had any political affiliations or connections with the Americans or ARVN. Since my father did not serve in the army, he was released after a few weeks. Others were not so fortunate; for example, my mom’s cousins, educated professionals, were sent away for re-education for years. Rumor had it that some people were imprisoned or dropped off in the jungle to die. The communist government confiscated valuables and property as they pleased. My parents knew that any future for them and their kids would be to escape Vietnam. So, my father started a business making pens by hand from a mold. He was a successful entrepreneur and managed to plan and save for our escape, secretly stashing his income and purchasing gold. In June 1979, my maternal grandparents, three aunts, eight uncles, and our immediate family of eight (father, mother, two sisters, three brothers, and myself) traveled to the outskirts of Saigon (we will always know it as Saigon, not Ho Chi Minh City) to Bạc Liêu, where there was a hideout where we waited for our paid passage. My father paid 45 lường (units of measurement in Vietnam) of gold to officials and told them that we were Chinese and wanted to go back to China. We were ethnically Chinese but did not want to return to China, so my father lied to justify our movements. 

After hiding for two weeks in terrible conditions, we started to wonder if the boat that we had paid for would even show up. My father had second thoughts as he thought about his parents, who chose not to go. Who would take care of them? My mother, however, insisted that we had to stick to our escape plan. We were then moved to another location. The boat finally arrived after 20 days of waiting. My family boarded a 30-meter boat that had surpassed the maximum capacity as 300 of us were packed in like sardines. We were out at sea for three days when we encountered Thai pirates who came onto our boat and stole all our valuables, raped a 16-year-old girl, and then dumped all our water and food supplies. 

It is estimated that 40% of the people who escaped died from starvation, drowning, sickness, dehydration, or were murdered. Women and girls were also kidnapped and sold into the sex trade. A woman’s toddler died on our boat, and the mother’s wailing could be heard miles away as she mourned the death of a girl who had tragically overdosed on the medicine her mother had given her. She was wrapped in whatever cloth we could find and was dropped into the ocean. No one’s survival was guaranteed as we did not know when we would have our next meal. 

We felt a glimmer of hope when we saw a bird knowing that we were close to land but fearful that perhaps we had circled back to the shores of Vietnam where we would immediately be thrown into jail. We were wrong and relieved to learn that we had reached the shores of Malaysia. Still, that hope quickly dissolved as the Malaysian officials divided up the men and older adults on two smaller boats while the women and children boarded another bigger boat. All the vessels were damaged. They were trying to break the family unit apart to decrease our chances of survival. My mother recalls looking at the boat that my father was on, thinking it may be the last time they would ever see each other; he never turned around to meet her gaze. Each of the boats was dragged out to sea in different directions. Our boat was leaking as we drifted in the raging sea. We crossed with another small sinking boat, and two women and two men came onto our boat. We were cautious of the two new men, but as the sea continued to storm, it was those two men that took charge and saved us. We started bailing water as the sea crashed onto our boat, and the men quickly used blankets to make a sail. We survived the storm.

After the storm, we encountered a US oil freighter. One of the men from our boat quickly jumped into the sea to swim towards them. He gave them a bottle with a message, and they called Singaporean officials on our behalf and threw food to us. Eventually, a Singaporean ship came and helped us. The men on board the vessel were very kind to my mother, seeing that she had six children. They went out of their way to give us orange juice and fed us. We stayed with them for one night. Then the Malaysian officials were contacted and said they would take us. Once we were dropped off, we knew that would not be the case. We were taken to an empty field with about a thousand people, and its perimeter was barbed wire. Rations of food were handed out each day, but it was barely enough for my mother and her six children. We could see the locals through the barbed wire going about their daily business. Some had compassion on us and would throw bread over, but they were rebuked for doing so. Each day people were called onto damaged boats and sent to sea to drown. None of us knew how to swim.

On the twenty-eighth day, we were called. My mother said as she stood up, she was so overridden with fear that her knees gave in, and she fell immediately. While in line, she prayed to Buddha that we would all die together. After we boarded the damaged boat, we were dragged out to sea, and the Malaysian officials crashed into our boat multiple times to try to sink us. Miraculously there was a storm that separated them from our boat. Off we drifted where eventually a fishing boat helped us. They dropped us off a secluded island and told us they would get help but warned us that the island was dangerous with gangs of men coming in the night to rape women. 

The Red Cross eventually discovered us and took us to Pulau Tengah, a UN Refugee camp. I arrived at Pulau Tengah near death. The long journey to this refugee camp had left me dehydrated from diarrhea. Miraculously, an old neighbor from Saigon came upon us the night we arrived and recognized my mother; fortunately, he had connections to a doctor at the camp. I likely would not have survived the night without that miracle. My stomach was bloated, swollen, and my weakened immune system could fight no more. The pirates could have killed us as we witnessed a pirate put a dagger to a man’s throat to threaten to kill him. My mother has never forgotten that man’s face. That could have easily been us, yet it was not. We could have died countless times, but we did not. Death was beckoning us, but it did not prevail.

We stayed at the refugee camp from August 1979 to January 1980. Canadian immigration officials then interviewed my mother and asked where her husband was. They found my father in a refugee camp along with my grandparents and uncles in Indonesia. They told us that Central Baptist Church in Victoria, BC, sponsored my whole family and relatives. We were then sent to the mainland to wait for our plane. Finally, we were reunited on May 11, 1980, in Victoria, B.C. All 16 of us had survived. The pursuit of freedom was an 11-month long journey that gave my family and me this unimaginable future for which I am deeply grateful. 

We arrived in Canada without a single penny in our pockets, but my parents knew that we no longer had to wonder if we would survive the day. We knew where our next meal would come from. The board chair at Central Baptist Church suggested that the church needed a caretaker and gave my father the job. They gave him a binder of photos to show him what they wanted for Sunday school set up and told him how to clean the church building. He worked seven days a week, checking that the church doors were locked every night. My father became the longest staff member at Central Baptist Church, retiring in 2020 after 40 years. In addition to working at the church, my dad worked as a dishwasher and sous chef at a French restaurant in the evenings. Jason, the restaurant owner, would often send my dad home with leftovers seeing that he had six children. We usually ate chicken bones, turkey necks, offal, and veggies from my grandmother’s garden and rice at home, yet everything tasted so delicious. 

Although our bellies were filled, our daily life in Canada took some adjusting. We were surrounded by people whom we had seen as foreigners, but now we were the foreigners. We changed our strange clothes daily, whereas, in Vietnam, we simply wore one loose-fitting and comfortable outfit (for bed and through the day) until it was dirty. We had to learn English, whereas we spoke Vietnamese and Teochew (a Chinese dialect). We had to adjust to the West Coast climate, whereas in Vietnam, the weather was tropical. We missed the streets lined with vendors and filled with the sights and sounds of motorcycles and bicycles. Everything was new, and our senses struggled to make sense of our different environment. In all of this transition, like many immigrants, our family found one sacred and safe place: the dining table.

The dinner table was the place that remained the same, which provided a reprieve from the overwhelming unfamiliarity outside of our home. It was familiar; it smelled like Vietnam, it tasted like Vietnam, it felt safe, it was home.  At the safety of our table, I was known as Mue Heng, not Hannah. The memories around the table have helped shape my view of the world, given me my identity, and gave me a sense of home even in a new country. To this day, when I cook for my father, he still eats pancakes or meatloaf or even snacks or chips with chopsticks. Some may interpret this as not integrating or learning new ways, but I know this is just his way of being at home in a new country.

My English comprehension was slow when I came to Canada. When I entered Kindergarten, I did not speak a single word of English. In grade one, I struggled to keep up with the others in the class and was sent to English as a second language class for part of the day. However, it was evident that I still needed the extra support, so I was told that I would have to repeat grade one. This is where I met Mrs. Stephenson, a shining light, who taught in the afternoons. She had incredible patience with me and often let me stay after school to work on my studies. I remember how she made learning so enjoyable. Once I was introduced to Ramona the Pest by Beverly Cleary for story time and I became hooked to the world of fiction. Her encouraging words of affirmation touched my spirit.  Mrs. Stephenson was the first person I remember speaking loving words to me in English. She dared me to dream, asking me, “What do you want to be when you grow up? You can be anything, Hannah!”  Although I moved on to grade two, I never forgot her, nor did her inspiration ever leave me. Our friendship was rekindled 25 years later when my thank you letter made its way to Mrs. Stephenson. She was retiring that year from teaching and was reflecting on the difference she has made in students. I am living proof of her profound impact. Amazingly, our friendship continues to this day!

As I reflect on my journey and transition to settle in Canada, I have deep gratitude for many who have been part of my story. I am deeply grateful to people like Mrs. Stephenson, who took the time to engage with my life. I am thankful to my sponsors at Central Baptist Church, who said yes to sponsoring 16 people when they had planned for four.  I am grateful to have met Mike Molloy during my graduate research and hear firsthand of his experience overseeing the immigration process for 60,000 people who left Vietnam and were welcomed to Canada. Finally, I am grateful to a nation that opened its arms to a little girl fleeing a war she could not comprehend to a new life of freedom that she could have never imagined!

Update

New Canadian Bursary

In 2017-2018 Hannah Temple raised $50K through churches, family, and friends for an endowed award to be set up at Ambrose University in honor of the sponsors that sponsored her relatives, family, and her to Canada.This annual bursary was set up to award any new Canadian, with preference to refugees, that has a financial need while studying at Ambrose University. Fall 2019 was the first academic year that the bursary was awarded. 

The New Canadian Bursary was featured in the 2017 Ambrose Fall Anthem magazine. The cover photo showed the two extended families that were sponsored by Central Baptist Church. The article in the magazine can be read here. 

“We the Same” by Sangeeta Wylie

This playwright was inspired by Hannah Temple’s mother's recollection of their courageous escape from Vietnam. The play was live streamed during Nov. 3-7, 2021 by The Cultch in partnership with Ruby Slippers Theater. The play received great reviews from On the List, Stir, The Georgia Straight and CBC Listen Weekend AM with Heather Barrett. 

“We the Same” is a play inspired by true events. In 1979 a Vietnamese family, a mother with six young children separated from their father on the sea, flee Communist Vietnam by boat, surviving pirate attacks, typhoons, shipwreck, starvation and more. The story weaves between past and the present, memory and truth, adventure and fantasy, secrets and forgiveness, vulnerability and courage; as the mother tells her daughter the story for the first time in 40 years. This production includes ritual dance, shadow play, live music and animation.

The Clutch