'For every B grade, he caned us.' Pauline Nguyen grew up in fear of her father.

This post deals with abuse and might be triggering for some readers.

My father had three instruments of torture. The first was a stiff and shiny billiard stick, the second was a flexible cane whip, and the third (and most effective) was fear. 

If someone were to ask me now what I remember most about my childhood, it would be the overwhelming stench of fear. I know what fear smells like. Fear dominated every day of my childhood. Fear followed me everywhere that I went. Fear stayed with me every day.

I cannot remember a time when fear did not lurk over my shoulder. Fear seeped through every window, rose up from each shiny floorboard and spilled through the dead cracks in our walls. It hovered over our beds while we were sleeping.

Listen to Mia Freedman's chat with Pauline Nguyen on No Filter. Post continues below.

Twice a year from the ages of seven to 13, my brothers and I brought home our school reports. For every B grade, my father caned us once. For every C grade, he caned us twice. This ritual required us to lay flat on our stomachs and not budge a millimetre until he was done. Blow after blow hacking at the flesh of our buttocks and thighs. 

We swallowed the pain without dropping a tear, with teeth clenched and fists squeezed tight until our knuckles turned white. I sometimes stared out the window and wondered what the neighbours would think if they ever heard us scream. What did it matter?  

To shed a tear or release a whimper at any time throughout this ritual meant a further beating to nullify our weakness. I cried only in private, knowing that the pain and bruising usually got worse before it got any better. 

When my father’s wrath relented a little, and as we lay before him in a bloody heap, he threw us a dollar for every A. Every day for the seven days leading up to report day, my father would lay out his instruments of torture in full view for us kids to see. 

Every day, we embraced and comforted each other. We stood strong and whispered quietly into the other’s ear, the single-minded words of courage and optimism that only kids who experienced the world like we did would understand. ‘Be brave. It will be over soon. Be brave.’ The reality of our lives was unfair, unkind and affectionless. 

Over the years, our skin grew thick and our pain tolerance high. My father had successfully created four tough working machines. No parent could have wished for better children. We were disciplined, obedient, hardworking, sensitive, caring, polite and always respectful. Mentally and physically we were strong. Emotionally and spiritually we were a mess.

My father was angry all the time. He had an anger in him that neither he nor anyone else could explain. He was like a faulty pressure cooker, always on the boil – a rolling heat building up inside, waiting to explode in the most destructive way. One of my father’s well used and memorable quotes was ‘I created you, and I have the power to destroy you’.

What problems my father must have had within himself to treat his innocent children with such contempt – his explosive anger completely out of proportion to any incident at hand. Perhaps the hurdles of adaptation to a new country so soon after the war proved too difficult to cope with. Perhaps the accumulated weight of responsibility from running multiple businesses grew too much for him to bear. Maybe the acute sciatica pain strained his patience and drained him of all his energy.  

On several occasions, I witnessed my father offload his anger on my mother. The first time I saw him inflict permanent physical damage was when I was six years old. In a rage, he smashed a chair across her face and broke her nose.

‘I had nightmares,’ my father tells me now. ‘The same dream, over and over. I am back in Vietnam planning for our escape. The dream is so real. I am back in the water day after day with nowhere to go, and then I wake up.’ 

My father had constant flashbacks to the war. Part of his job as a lieutenant in artillery was to go back to the scene of a battle and count the dead bodies.

It was his duty to assess the damage so as to better calculate his aim for next time. ‘I don’t know how many I killed; one shell killed so many.’ The scars from his own bullet wounds resemble a question mark down the length of his spine.

Many of my father’s friends, with whom he fought alongside in the war, came to him with the same sorts of flashbacks – some memories far more horrific. Visitors came to ask for his advice about the laws and the language in their new country. Some hung around our restaurant all day to ease feelings of loneliness and isolation. They too struggled to cope with the scars of past experiences, finding it hard to function, let alone provide for their families. Like my father, many showed signs of depression and PTSD.  

I once asked my father if he would agree that he and his friends might have benefitted from seeking professional guidance – if not to allow some sort of healing, then at least to acknowledge the darkness that festered within. In typical fashion, my father responded, ‘What for? What was the point? We just got on with it.’

If this post brings up any issues for you, or if you just feel like you need to speak to someone, please call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) – the national sexual assault, domestic and family violence counselling service. It doesn’t matter where you live, they will take your call and, if need be, refer you to a service closer to home. 

Pauline Nguyen is a best-selling author and award-winning businesswoman. She has overcome adverse beginnings to transform her approach to success by re-engineering her beliefs, questioning the status quo and hacking cultural norms. 

This is an edited extract from her book The Way Of The Spiritual Entrepreneur. RRP $34.99.