The Mountains Sing

  “Hạnh!” Uncle Đạt grabbed her arm, pulling it down. He eyed Grandma, who was cupping Uncle Thuận’s letter to her face.

  “He fought for the Southern Army,” my aunt hissed. “I learnt this from his neighbors. So there’s only one explanation, how the letter fell into his hands.”

  “Don’t judge before you know all the facts.” Grandma squared her shoulders. She gathered the larger envelope and its unread pages, giving them to me. “Hương, read clearly. Don’t stop until you reach the end.”

  Nha Trang City, 16/12/1978

  My dear Mama, Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, Hạnh, and Sáng,

  It’s Minh here. I’m writing this twenty-three years since the day we last saw each other. Believe me, there have been many times when I started this letter, only to tear it apart. There’re so many things I want to tell you, but didn’t know how to begin. How could I pack all my longing for you into the smallness of words? It’d be better for me to talk to you in person but what if I’ll never get to see you again?

  Thuận, I got your letter in 1972, a few months after you’d written it. Holding your words in my hand, I laughed since you all had survived the Land Reform, and I cried because you had to fight in this bloodbath of a war. Oh my little brother, how are you now? Đạt, Sáng, Ngọc and Hạnh, did you have to go to the battlefield? Were you injured?

  Mama, how did you manage to escape from those murderers? I’m so sorry I couldn’t wait for you and take you with me as I went to the South. If I did, perhaps all of us would be in America right now, living in freedom, as a family. Oh how selfish and cowardly of me to have run away without waiting for you after my escape. As the eldest son in the family, I should have taken care of you. I failed in my responsibility. I’m so sorry.

  My beloved family, there’ve been many things that happened since the day that tore us apart. Perhaps I can begin by recalling what happened to Uncle Công and me during that dreadful day. It’s painful to remember, but I must relive those experiences, for they not only changed me but also explain the reasons for my actions later on.

  It was a peaceful day, and we had been weeding a patch of rice field, remember, Mama? After you’d gone home to feed Sáng, I worked alongside Uncle Công. Suddenly, shouting voices boomed.

  “Someone must have caught a thief,” said Uncle Công, his back bent low above the rice. But the voices were getting closer. When I wiped sweat from my eyes and lifted my head, a group of men and women were charging at us, armed with bricks, knives, large sticks.

  “To hell with wicked landowners!” the crowd shouted, their weapons high in their hands.

  Uncle Công begged for mercy, but those people overpowered him. As I howled and kicked, they pinned us down, tied us up, beat us, and dragged us toward our village.

  I was terrified when I saw you, Mama. You were being flung down the five steps of the front yard.

  Fear paralyzed me as I was gagged, pulled away from our home, and paraded around the village. Uncle Công and I had to walk under the rain of rotten eggs, rocks, brick shards, and angry words. Bleeding, we were led to the village river and bound with coarse rope to large trunks of trees.

  We knelt, thirsty and in unbearable pain. As I struggled to free myself, Uncle Công leaned over to me. He couldn’t talk, but in his eyes I read his sorrow and his love for me. Nearby, those who captured us had started a bonfire. They laughed raucously as they ate, emptied bottles of rice liquor, cheered, and shouted slogans. They challenged each other to deliver the worst punishment to the wicked landlords.

  When the heat of the discussions among the men was intense, they unbound Uncle Công. They demanded that he kiss their feet. When Uncle Công refused, they kicked him, calling him the dirtiest of names. I tried to shrink into a ball when they dragged out a lidded bamboo basket—the kind used for transporting pigs.”

  At this, I had to stop. Across from me, Grandma was biting her lip so hard that it was white. I wished I could make the words vanish so that they wouldn’t inflict additional pain on her.

  But Grandma’s eyes told me to go on.

  “Admit you are a wicked landlord who exploits poor farmers!” one of the men shouted at Uncle Công.

  My dear uncle shook his head, and they pushed him into the basket, closing the lid.

  Howls gurgled in my mouth as the basket was hurled into the river. “Tell us you’re a wicked landlord and we’ll release you!” the mob chanted as they dunked the basket repeatedly.

  I tried to break away from the tree. I wanted to strangle each person there with my bare hands, but the rope held me back. My eyes had been emptied of tears by the time Uncle Công’s lifeless body thudded down on the ground next to me. I wriggled, craned forward, and managed to reach him with my foot. I nudged him repeatedly, but there was no response. As time passed, his body grew cold and stiff.

  Dead—my uncle who had taken care of me like a father. Dead—the man who had taught me about kindness and hard work. My uncle was murdered in front of my eyes and yet I wasn’t able to do anything for him.

  The men continued to drink and shout their slogans. I was sure they left me alive to punish me in the coming days, for all our villagers to witness. Occasionally, they stood up, went to the tree, and pissed on me. They kicked me and laughed at me. I bit my lip until it bled. I hadn’t known about hatred, even when my father was taken away from me, but now I tasted hatred on my tongue. I vowed to take revenge for my father and uncle as long as I live.

  Late in the night the men became so drunk, they crumpled into heaps around the withering fire, their snores and snorts breaking the silence of the hour. I struggled but was powerless against the rope. I lost all my hope as the fire died down.

  A soft voice. My heart jumped. Mr. Hải and his son had come for me. They hurried to untie me, then led me onto a road. Everything was dark as coal; I didn’t know where I was.

  “You have to leave, Minh. . . run far away. Stay here and they’ll kill you,” whispered Mr. Hải.

  “How about my mother, my family? Shouldn’t I wait for them?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell them that you’ve escaped, and they, too, should flee. Go now, else they’ll catch you.” Mr. Hải’s hands trembled on my face. “Good luck, Minh. They have a quota of how many people to execute. My son will take you to the national highway. I’m going to your mother.” His footsteps disappeared into the night.

  At the national highway, his son’s urgent words buzzed in my ears, telling me to try hitchhiking, to run fast.

  After he’d hugged me good-bye, I stumbled along the road. Shouts and drumbeats from afar sent tremors from my head to my toes. I told myself I had to survive. I was nearly eighteen. I could take care of myself. I had to, but a part of me begged to go back home, to look for you, my dear Mama, to look for you, my beloved brothers and sisters.

  As I wandered on the national highway, I ran into a Catholic family who were fleeing—Mr. Cường, his wife, and their two daughters. They’d managed to secure travel passes for the national highway and were waiting for their buffalo cart. Looking at my bleeding wounds, cut by the rope, they felt sorry for me. They shared with me their medicine, food, and water. They asked what had happened and offered to hide me inside the cart. They knew it’d be dangerous but decided that God had arranged for them to meet me, and that it was their duty to help.

  Turning back to our village and seeing only fear and death, I let those kind people cover me with straw. They surrounded me with bags of belongings and fixed a wooden board above me. As I was pulled away from my birthplace, I felt my limbs were being ripped apart from my body.

  After days of traveling, Mr. Cường’s family drew back the board. I emerged into the light to find myself in Hải Phòng, a city Mr. Cường said was around 120 kilometers east of Hà Nội. I looked back at the road we’d just traveled. It was filled with black coal dust. I saw no future for me there.

  Mr. Cường told me he planned to cross the border by sea and head south, and I decided to go alon
g. The South meant freedom from the Communists. Once I got settled, I would send news to you and perhaps help you escape. The thought cheered me up.

  Mr. Cường was an influential trader who knew quite a few people in Hải Phòng. One of them took us into his home. When night fell, he led us to a deserted part of a river, where a fisherman and his boat were waiting. We got into the boat, flattening ourselves onto the wet floor, and the fisherman covered us with nets and rowed us away.

  It was well into the next day when the fisherman removed the net. On immense water stood a gigantic ship, with tiny fishing boats bobbing around it. The ship was packed with people and was about to head south. Mr. Cường’s family had arranged tickets for themselves.

  Mr. Cường told me to wait as he went aboard. A short while later, he appeared on the tall deck together with a man in white uniform. He convinced the man that I’d be a strong, good worker.

  On the ship, I shoveled coal into burning furnaces. I worked furiously, trying to exhaust myself so I could fall asleep during breaks. There was no turning back, no land in sight, just the wind, the water, the sun.

  It took more than a week for us to reach Nha Trang. I left the ship, black with coal dust, but bright with new joy in my heart. I’d found friendship in Linh, Mr. Cường’s eldest daughter. Together we grieved for our lost homes, but at the same time we were excited about the future ahead of us—a future free of terror, we thought.

  The Southern government was trying to encourage people to flee the North. They provided free accommodation and means of support to newly arrived Northerners. I stayed with a group of young men in the same neighborhood as Mr. Cường’s family. During the day, I worked as a laborer for a construction project. In the evenings, I attended classes. I wanted to get a good job, earn money, to be able to bring you to the South, my dear Mama, Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, Hạnh, and Sáng.

  I often found myself wandering around Nha Trang port, staring at the streams of people pouring out of ships and boats. I hoped you had been able to go south like me. I wrote many letters, but found no way of sending them. There was no longer a North–South postal service. No one I knew would risk their lives by going back to the North. Still, the hope for our reunion burned inside of me and gave light to my dark days.

  I finished high school, with Linh by my side. I went to church with her and found peace in listening to God’s words. I found new strength in my faith. I was baptized and vowed to be a good Catholic.

  But being a good Catholic isn’t easy. God asks me to forgive those who harmed me. But how could I ever forgive those who murdered my father and my uncle and tore our family apart?

  I studied hard, got into university, and graduated with a law degree. I specialized in criminal law, determined to help undo injustice. On my graduation day, while my friends laughed, I cried because you were not there to celebrate with me. On the first day that I worked as a practicing lawyer, I didn’t cry, though. I smiled because I knew you would be proud of me.

  My job paid well and I was able to borrow from the bank to buy a small house. My first house, can you imagine?

  I wish you could have been there at my wedding. Linh looked just like an angel. Our son, Thiện, was born one year later, followed by our daughter, Nhân. You would have loved to meet your grandchildren, Mama. They know you well because I told them stories about you every day. I didn’t ever want them to forget their roots.

  The war intensified. Fighting took place on the outskirts of our city, but sometimes artillery exploded in our neighborhood. We lived in fear because anyone could be a disguised Việt Cộng, hiding a hand grenade inside their pants or shirt.

  The American government had sent their troops to help, and I was convinced we were going to defeat Hà Nội. Once that happened, the first thing I’d do is to return to our village and find you.

  I wanted the Communists to fall, but still, when the draft notice arrived, I was stunned. I looked up at Jesus and prayed to him. I wanted to safeguard the freedom we had in the South, but if I went to the battlefield, I would face death and Linh could be left alone with my children. If I went to the battlefield, I would risk fighting against my brothers and sisters.

  My father-in-law came to see me. He said it’d be difficult for me to escape the draft, but he was ready to bribe. Or he would bribe to get me an office job with the government. Our Southern regime, unfortunately, was so corrupt that you could almost buy anything with money. I despised such corruption and didn’t want to support it.

  That night, as I tried to make up my mind, I remembered how white the funeral bands were on our heads as we wailed in front of my father’s coffin, how wicked the laughter of those who’d killed Uncle Công, and how bitter the hatred I’d tasted on my lips. And I remembered my vow of revenge.

  So, in 1971, I joined the Army of the Republic of Việt Nam, the ARVN.

  Oh, my brothers and sisters, I had to be the man who stands up for his beliefs, but I knew then that I could be facing you in the battlefield. Sixteen years had passed, but your faces were imprinted in my mind. If we were to meet each other, would you shoot at me? I wouldn’t. But what if one of my comrades had his gun pointed at your forehead? Would I kill my brother in arms to save my brother in blood?

  Those questions were alive in my mind during my four years in the Army. I slipped through the fingers of death many times. And though I never saw you, I often found myself by the side of the dead enemy. As I looked at their faces and inspected their belongings, I feared the worst.

  I thought I’d find satisfaction seeing my enemy dead, but the sight only made me empty and sad. I realized that blood that is shed can’t make blood flow again in other people’s veins.

  I had expected us to win the war, but the Americans withdrew their troops one year after my oath to fight alongside them. They swallowed their promise to help protect the South from Communist invasion. And our ARVN had been weakened by the weevil of corruption. When the Northern Army and the Southern Việt Cộng won battle after battle, my commander fled with a helicopter. Some of my comrades committed suicide. The rest deserted their posts or surrendered.

  The day my hometown, Nha Trang, was taken over, I wept. By then, I’d abandoned my weapons and come home. We dug a shelter at the back of my house for me to hide, but after several weeks living underground as an animal, I crawled out. The radio was telling us that the new government was working toward reconciliation. They asked all former ARVN soldiers to turn ourselves in. They promised not to punish anyone. They sent people who were former ARVN soldiers to our home to talk to my wife and children. Those soldiers said that they’d been treated well; Northerners or Southerners, we were all brothers and sisters now.

  Linh and my father-in-law accompanied me when I first turned myself in. We worried I’d be arrested, but the officers who spoke to me were friendly. They asked me to write a report about things I’d done during the war. Afterward, they told me to go home and report back every week for the next three months, and that this was only for administrative purposes. That night, we celebrated. I decided that as soon as my three-month time was up, I would try to find you.

  But nothing is certain in life. When I reported to the authorities the next week, I was immediately ushered into a crowded truck, which took me to a reeducation camp many hours away from Nha Trang, high up in the mountains. I didn’t even have the chance to say good-bye to my loved ones.

  The camp was a harsh labor prison. We had to clear away bushes and hoe rocky land to turn it into rice paddies. Without medical care and enough food, many people died. Malaria nearly killed me several times. What made me more miserable, though, was the fact that I didn’t know what had happened to Linh and my kids—or to any of you.

  The two years at the camp felt like centuries. Upon release, I came home to see my wife and children struggling. Linh couldn’t find a job and had had to sell her jewelry, clothes, and our furniture to be able to keep Thiện and Nhân at school. They were labeled Ngụy—“the Illegitimate
”—and suffered extreme discrimination. For the next two years, I wasn’t entitled to my rights as a citizen. I couldn’t work. I didn’t have an ID card. I wasn’t able to vote. Every week for the next many months, I had to report to the authorities.

  My father-in-law had built himself a business empire in Nha Trang but lost nearly everything after the war. While I was in prison, his houses, assets, and business were nationalized. He and his wife had to spend one year in the Lâm Đồng New Economic Zone. The mountainous conditions there were harsh, and every night they had to gather and sing songs that praised the new government. One night, my father-in-law grabbed his wife and sneaked out of their hut. They escaped, went home, and dug up the gold ingots they’d buried in their garden. They bought a boat and within the next many months, secretly prepared to cross the sea to America.

  It’d be a dangerous journey. “But I’d rather die than live the life of the unwanted,” my father-in-law told me. My wife and children decided to get on the boat. They begged me to come, and I wanted to, but my mind turned to the North. I’d lost you once. I couldn’t do it twice. I had to go back for you first.

  Watching my wife and children depart was the hardest thing I ever had to do.

  Alone, I returned home. I rented a rickshaw, stood at street corners and waited for customers. I also waited for the moment I could contact you. I kept believing things would soon change, that I could soon travel back to our home village. Unfortunately, prosecutions against those like me continued. If I sent you letters or came back to see you, I would bring you serious harm.

  I longed for news about Linh, Thiện, Nhân, and my parents-in-law, but only terrible stories reached me. Stories about boat people being robbed, raped, and murdered by pirates at sea; stories about boats running out of food, water, and petrol, being capsized by storms. I could do nothing but pray.

  When I fell ill, I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t serious, that it was only caused by my worries. Then I threw up blood and couldn’t get up anymore. I had to sell my house to finance the treatments.