by Laura Lam
Hung had what appeared to be a minor head injury but nobody knew if there was any internal damage. More than twenty children were injured that afternoon. Luckily none were killed.
* * *
My mother grieved for the “old” village life and was desperate for all of us to leave the Strategic Hamlet. She said to me, “Next time there’s an attack, we will tear down the houses as soon as the battle is over, before they can send new soldiers to the Garrison. We’ll have to move back to the old village very quickly. We’ve learned our lesson this time.” She often talked about the past and all the good memories of growing up in the “old” village. She told me that she was planning to build a very large kitchen hut the day we returned and she would bake little wedding cakes by the hundreds – her specialty beside sewing – just as she had when Hien got married.
Several years had passed and we were still talking about that wedding, as were other people in the village. Maybe this was because it was one of the last events we had been able to celebrate fully, in the traditional manner, before war took over our lives, and most of the young men and women went off to join the Nationalist forces in the jungles.
Hien’s husband was Than, whom she’d met at the visiting opera. He lived with his uncle and worked as a nurse in Can Tho. Than’s father had been executed by the French shortly after Than’s birth. His mother died a few years later, from profound grief and suffering. Being an orphan, his uncle had adopted him. My maternal relatives had not known Than or his family before. Hien’s mother was a liberal woman and Uncle Phan a gentle father, so she was allowed to marry for love.
I was with Hien on the day she became engaged. She wore a pretty yellow cotton ao ba ba – the traditional blouse, with white hand embroidery around the hems – and black satin trousers. She also wore a pair of wooden clogs, which I had not seen on her feet before. In her hair she inserted a little white orchid. Hien was well built, with a slightly dark complexion and a sweet smile. Before the arrival of the groom and his people, Hien instructed her younger sister Sac and me to change our clothes. “You girls have to look clean and smart!” she insisted. This we did, and until the guests arrived, we waited in the kitchen hut with Hien. Her mother, Uncle Phan, and my maternal grandmother waited in the main house.
Than’s people appeared at the main entrance all at once. He was led by his uncle – the most senior member of his family. Both were wearing short linen tunics over dark trousers. Than’s tunic was navy blue, his uncle’s dark gray. Than was tall, dark, fairly handsome, with a melancholy air. The uncle was a retired teacher with masses of distinguished gray hair. Right behind them came twelve young women, each carrying a large tray covered with a red cloth. The trays held betel leaves and areca nuts, tea and cakes. The girls were dressed in ao ba ba. Their blouses were solid colours – pink, red, purple, blue, green, yellow…forming a beautiful and cheerful rainbow. Their trou- sers were black. Because Uncle Phan had a wide circle of relatives and friends, there had to be enough gifts to distribute among them. This custom was called the “crossing of the bride’s house gate.” The exact date and hour had been chosen according to the astrological calendar, as was insisted on by Than’s family.
Sac and I accompanied Hien to the main house to meet her new in-laws. They presented her with a set of wedding gifts – an engagement ring, a pair of jade earrings, a necklace, and cash.
Gifts of food were placed on a large table below the ancestral altar, and incense sticks and lights were lit. Hien and Than bowed before the altar. After this Sac and I escorted Hien back to the kitchen hut, where she was to remain during the engagement feast. In the mean time Than took over the entertainment of the guests. He was now acting as a member of the bride’s family.
The wedding took place a few months later. On the appointed day the family of the groom accompanied him to Uncle Phan’s house at the hour specially designated by the astrologer. Than was led by his uncle. They were wearing long silk tunics and black trousers, with matching headbands. Than’s tunic was medium blue and his uncle’s golden brown. The uncle was carrying a shiny copper incense burner. Behind them came many attendants, then his brothers and sisters and close friends. Young women carried a large quantity of betel leaves and areca nuts on bamboo trays and distributed them to the wedding party along the route.
After tea, Than’s uncle made a formal request to Uncle Phan, “Representing our family, may I ask you and your wife for permission to accompany Hien to her new home?” Solemnly, Uncle Phan agreed. He performed a rite before the altar, requesting the ancestors to accept the marriage. The bride and groom then bowed to the ancestors and gracefully walked out to the gate to be with the several hundred waiting guests. Uncle Phan and his wife did not walk beyond their house entrance during the wedding ceremony. They did not wish to be seen as being too eager to give their daughter away.
The groom’s entourage gradually began the procession home. Than’s people used a dozen sampans – all lined at the base with woven water palm leaves and decorated for the occasion. The bride’s sampan was painted sky blue and contained two bamboo arches, supporting a pergola. It was my grandmother who had made the roof from coconut palm leaves. The pergola was decorated with garlands of fresh flowers. Hien wore a brilliant red silk ao dai dotted with gold coin prints, and had a beautiful cluster of white orchid in her hair. She wore some light makeup on which Than had bought for her. She wore a pair of beaded moccasins, given to her by my parents. Hien’s bridesmaid, who was her best friend, wore a pink silk ao dai. Sac and I, as “flower girls,” also wore pink ao dai and our hair was braided and decorated with a cluster of white orchids.
At the groom’s house the festive group was greeted by a series of fireworks, followed by a ceremony to honour the God and Goddess of Marriage (Ong To Ba Nguyet). Then, the three-day feast began. My mother had supervised the preparation of several hundred little wedding cakes for the celebration, baked in clay stoves lent by our neighbours. While the main cooking for the feast was done inside the kitchen hut, my mother and a dozen young women lined up the stoves outside and did their baking. The aroma filled the neighbourhood for two whole days.
* * *
At home we had three terra cotta burners which my mother referred to simply as ong tao, or kitchen god. Sometimes I would hear her praying to the kitchen god, who was supposed to have a friendly black face peering over the burners. The Vietnamese believe that every year, on the twenty-third day of the twelfth moon, seven days prior to the Lunar New Year, the kitchen god goes to Heaven and reports on the household’s activities.
One day, my mother said to me, “You have been spoiled by your grandmother. It’s now time for you to learn how to gather fuel and to cook meals.” With help from Uncle Muoi’s wife, I obtained enough palm leaves and coconut husks for a two-week supply. Dzung and I arranged them to dry in the sun. Days later we tied the dried palm leaves in tidy bunches and stacked them neatly against a wall in the kitchen. We stored the dried coconut husks in two huge bamboo baskets. To start a fire, I would light a bunch of the dried leaves and feed the fire with some dried husks. The husks produced beautiful glowing flames and turned into red chunks of charcoal that retained the heat throughout the cooking process.
Sometimes my mother and I had to go into the deep forest to cut firewood. She sawed the trees and chopped them into the sizes we needed with an axe. I helped load the freshly chopped wood into the sampan. She would perch me at the front end of the sampan while she sat at the back. We paddled the sampan home. If there was a lot of wood my mother would ask Dzung to come with us. He would take my place to do the paddling. As the war continued to escalate, the jungles would soon be poisoned and destroyed by chemical defoliants. Many families would start using portable oil burners for cooking.
My mother often cooked fish inside a ceramic bowl over a low fire. Slow cooking in the bowl made this “a dish fit for a king”, she said. Whenever she couldn’t find the right size bowl, she took one of my grandmother’s antique china bowls. T
he blue and white bowl turned completely brown around its rim. Another use – or misuse – to which she put one of the china bowls was for sharpening her knife. She turned the bowl over and whetted the knife’s edge on the rim. It made my heart ache, and would have destroyed my grandmother, if she could have witnessed it.
Every day I helped my mother prepare meals, I was also responsible for looking after my brother Trung. He was an extremely active little boy. Mother had warned me that I had to watch him closely at all times. Because of this my fishing expeditions with Dzung were curtailed. One day, however, I decided to try my luck and look after my brother while fishing next to the house. He was playing in the front yard and I had my fishing rod over the stream. I kept running back to the front yard to be with him, then back to the rod to check for fish. Eventually he came crawling from the yard towards the pond. I heard a splash of water. I ran back and saw him floating among the water lilies, his yellow-striped T shirt glued to his chest and his bare bottom under the water. I screamed out, “Mother! Mother! Trung fell into the water. Come out quickly, Mother!” She came rushing out of the house, jumping into the pond, and scooped him out.
My mother gave me the most vicious look, her teeth clenched, her eyes like those of a lion. She stormed into the house, putting him on the floor, and came at me with a bamboo stick. She lunged at me, grabbed hold of my long hair, jammed my body against the wall and started beating me with full force, “You’re a careless idiot. You’re evil. He nearly died because of you. I am going to beat you, beating the hell out of you. From now on don’t you dare neglect the baby again…” The beating continued until she became exhausted.
I felt my body being torn apart, like a shredded rag. That night I ached so much whenever I moved on the reed mat. The demonic look on my mother’s face would reappear in my dreams many nights and many years later.
* * *
It was a sunny afternoon with blue sky, in late 1962. I went fishing without Dzung. He had been helping his two sisters-in-law in the rice field. My mother asked if I would collect some bitter herbs on my way back. We couldn’t grow these types of herbs in our garden, but they thrived in the muddy jungle soil. I was in no rush to return, even though my basket had been filled with a variety of wild herbs, on top of the fish I had caught.
Suddenly I heard the deafening sound of an aircraft. I was conditioned to believe that, in all probability, there would be an air raid. Realizing I was a long distance from home, I ran toward the jungle. I had never been in the jungle on my own before. Now I felt the urgency of being absorbed and protected by it. I looked up and saw two giant black fish flying across the blue sky. They quickly descended, circling just over the tree tops. A series of violent explosions rocked the ground and the sky was quickly filled with black smoke and orangered flames.
I burst into tears while running, stepping over broken branches and small shrubs at the edge of the jungle. I bumped into a tree trunk and my head went numb. The forest was dancing in front of me. The roaring sounds continued and the jungle was shaken by more explosions. I ran deeper and deeper into it. I thought of imminent death and my body went into spasms. Slowly the fear subsided. In my mind, death was inevitable and I came to accept it. “Quan Yin, please receive me! I am coming to you.”
When I came to my senses, I found myself leaning against a tree trunk with my feet sunk into the wet ground. Above me I saw the green fruits of a tropical cypress tree. I’d lost my basket and had no recollection where I had dropped it.
The jungle was silent. The calls and songs of birds had ceased. I could hear the soft whistling of the wind. The sky was already tinted purple. I wanted to go home but was too afraid to walk out of the jungle by myself. The purple sky grew darker and the strange green forest around me was now turning black.
I hoped against hope that someone would come looking for me. I knew my mother had to take care of my two little brothers, but perhaps one of my relatives might come. I turned in one direction and started walking. I changed to the opposite direction and walked again. I realized I had no idea of the way out. The sky was completely black and I’d started shivering. My lips quivered uncontrollably, “Quan Yin, please guide me home!”
I caught sight of some light ahead in the distance. I came near a solitary hut. There was a kerosene lamp in the kitchen, but there was nobody anywhere near. I stepped inside. On the clay burner I spotted a pot of rice, apparently cold. My stomach was tied in knots and I just wanted something to settle it. I grabbed a handful of the rice and ate it quickly. Then another handful. All of a sudden, a hard object struck me above my right eye.
Before I felt any pain, drops of blood splattered over the front of my white blouse. I could taste the saltiness of my own blood with the rice. An unknown boy was standing in front of me. He was about fourteen. There was a fierce look in his eyes. He stared at me but didn’t speak. My limbs started to shake. An old woman appeared behind him and shouted at him to get away. He obeyed her. She then attended to my wound – whatever he had hit me with was to leave a scar on my face for life. The old woman soon led me outside, and pointed me in the right direction.
I set off as darkness increased around me and soon reached an area where I inhaled a powerful smell of scorched foliage – heavy and nauseating. I heard voices calling out for loved ones. A cluster of people were trying to lift a wounded person from the ground onto a wooden stretcher. One was holding a kerosene lamp above the body while the others were lighting the road with torches. Although I was not able to see their faces clearly, I heard a woman crying in anguish. The wounded person was taken away.
I went on only to be stopped by another crowd. They also carried torches and kerosene lamps.
About two metres away from me was the crushed head and partially burned limbs of a child. The people gathered around it couldn’t identify the body. Then I saw the wounded chest of a man, not far from the child. The blood on his chest had dried and darkened. His severely burned face was blackened like charcoal. His white teeth looked like he was smiling.
I pushed my way through, stunned but impelled by an overwhelming desire to get home. It was Dai, the eldest son of my aunt Di Nam, who found me. He spotted me in the crowd and shouted out, “She is here! I found Hoa Lai! Mother! Auntie!” I heard a sudden anguished shrieking. It was my mother. For one brief but extraordinary moment, I thought perhaps she loved me after all. Dai seized my shoulder and lifted me high in the air, forcing his way through. In the absence of light, I couldn’t really see my family’s faces but I recognized their voices.
In the aftermath of that raid, a new song began to circulate, the mourning song of a child for the destruction of her village. It was anonymous, lest there be reprisals against whoever wrote it, but it became well known among the people of the delta:
There was a little place before
Named the village of the Little Elephant
The elephant is no more
He was a victim of the war
What’s left is a charred clearing
In the old bamboo jungle
Called the village of the Little Elephant.
IMPRISONING A VILLAGE
“If you win the people over to your side, the Viet Cong guerrillas have no place to hide. With no place to hide, you can find them. Then, as military men, fix them…finish them!”
Colonel Lansdale to his secret squads
“It’s better to kill an innocent person than to leave out a Viet Cong.”
Ngo Dinh Diem to his secret police
After the establishment of the ARVN regime, a campaign of repression began. People were executed in public, or they suddenly disappeared, never to be seen again. The “Viet Cong” struck back and the ARVN carried out further reprisals. Like other children of the village, I understood little of what was going on. All we knew was that, at the first sounds of gunfire, we fled into the jungles.
In 1961, the Diem regime began a campaign of moving ten million peasants into seventeen thousand fortified villages called Strateg
ic Hamlets, known to the Vietnamese as Ap Chien Luoc, in order to isolate them from the “Viet Cong” and vice versa. The peasants showed much resistance and in retaliation the government sent troops to raid the villages. In Long My district, during the first five months of May 1961, ARVN troops conducted more than five hundred raids on nine villages. They arrested and killed hundreds of people, among them close friends of my maternal relatives. The methods of killing included shooting, beheading, cutting open the stomach, and throwing a person tied with rocks into the sea.
Prior to our relocation to the Strategic Hamlet, the authorities in Truong An ordered the construction of four Catholic churches inside the new living compounds, leaving the other four Catholic churches in the “old” village vacant. The building work was done by the villagers and without any form of payment or compensation. As soon as we moved in, we were ordered to convert to Catholicism. The majority of the peasants refused and they were forbidden to practice any other religion as a punishment.
After endless harassment, people who had practiced Buddhism or Caodaism stopped going to the temples altogether. My maternal grandmother and Uncle Phan no longer dared to visit the Cao Dai temple. Left vacant, the building was from time to time used as an interrogation centre by Constance Garrison. The government also started a military campaign with the most bizarre slogan, “Joining the ARVN to protect Jesus Christ.”
Viet Nam, throughout its long history, has been deeply influenced by Buddhism and Confucianism. Buddhism upheld a powerful inner life, while Confucianism provided a political philosophy and a stable set of rules of conduct for an orderly society. The two went together without tension. Vietnamese Buddhist monks had earlier established a reputation for scholarship by their mastery of language and literature. They were royal advisers and emissaries. For centuries, it was the Buddhist elite who had established schools and taught the country’s new leaders, generation after generation. Unlike Catholicism, the strength of Buddhism lies not in highly structured organization but in its deep psychological and moral values. It is more an inner attitude, a spiritual disposition rather than a specific program or ideology.