by Laura Lam
I had a round window put into that back wall, on the second floor. The cemetery now became more visible from the window – something I had secretly wanted, ever since we moved into the house. It was because of the dead soldiers. A number of young men killed in combat were buried there so that their disembodied spirits could be near their families. Whenever a burial procession was taking place, I would stand quietly by the window and watch the solemn lifting of the ARVN flag – bright yellow with three red stripes – before the coffin was lowered into the ground. I was deeply shaken by the terrible ending of another young life. I would grieve for him, a soldier I did not know. From that evening, and night after night – in my halfawakened state, I would hear a violent wind and see soldiers with grim faces glistening in the moonlight – the powerful winds carrying war’s dead souls in the murkiness of night.
* * *
In the summer of 1966 my maternal grandmother came to Sai Gon to visit us. It was her first trip to the capital. She brought some live chickens, a few bags of rice, several dozens eggs, mangos, pineapples, and bananas. Unfortunately, the cyclo driver, being dishonest, dropped her off on the wrong street, then rode away with all her goods. With our address in her pocket she finally arrived in the most distressed condition.
Mother sent me to the market to buy betel leaves and areca nuts to replace the lost ones. My parents tried to remain calm but I was very upset. After dinner, the two women crouched together on the bed, and they fell asleep shortly afterward. Early in the morning, at about four, both of them woke up and sat inside the mosquito net, talking softly. I woke up and could hear my grandmother sobbing. Quietly, I stepped down from my attic perch and joined her. She was giving an account of deaths in the village.
I was in great shock to learn that both Hung and Dzung had died a few months before. My grandmother described Hung’s death, “During one of his seizures he fell into the fish pond at the back of the house. When I found him, his body was floating in the water. The rest of the family had been working in the fields that morning and I thought that he had gone with them. The poor thing had suffered so much with seizures before his death. A month before that he had fallen over a ceramic container and it crashed into pieces. He was hurt with several cuts and marks on his face and neck then.”
I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. My mind returned to the day we had gone to the water palm jungle to pick coconuts. Hung had saved me from drowning. Now five years later, it was he who drowned. He was all alone.
While we were all in tears over Hung’s death, my grandmother gathered her courage and talked about Dzung.
She said that shortly after we left the village Dzung spent most of his time on the rice fields and didn’t go fishing any more. One day a group of soldiers from Constance Garrison saw him sitting on the back of his buffalo and they asked him for information about the “Viet Cong” in our village. Dzung said he did not know any “Viet Cong” anywhere. He told them he never understood what “Viet Cong” meant. The soldiers didn’t like what he said. Why was he challenging them? He must have something to hide, and he was lying, and so they arrested him. At the Garrison he was interrogated and beaten. But they couldn’t find any evidence against Dzung and had to release him. He was so angry that he joined the NLF following his release. After two years in the army Dzung became a platoon leader. He was eighteen.
Dzung participated in several major battles in Truong An. In August 1965 his platoon joined forces with others and they encircled Constance Garrison. The Garrison called in helicopters from Thanh Chau. While these aircraft were circling above the Garrison, they poured down heavy gunfire, and Dzung fell with serious wounds to the chest. Two members of his platoon came to aid him but as they were lifting his body onto a stretcher they too were shot. Dzung died on the battlefield. Meanwhile, Uncle Phan and his wife had escaped to Thanh Chau with other relatives. The news of Dzung’s death reached them while they were still away. His mother broke down but Uncle Phan warned her not to cry because she would be arrested by the authorities – relatives of Nationalist soldiers were forbidden to mourn for their dead. Frustrated and angry, she shouted at Uncle Phan, in tears, “If this puppet government forbids me to cry here, take me to the jungle and I will cry for my son there!”
Constance Garrison kept a closer watch over its surroundings after the battle. To discourage relatives of the dead enemies from locating the bodies, they dumped piles of dried hay over them. The head of the Garrison announced that they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot relatives, whom they considered as guilty as the victims themselves. It was Van who took the horrendous risk of uncovering Dzung’s decomposed body one evening. They buried him quietly and secretly in an unmarked grave.
Before the end of my grandmother’s visit, a severe depression had taken hold of me. I had a strong urge to return to the village – to visit the graves of Hung and Dzung, to mourn with my relatives. But my father discouraged me from going, saying that it was now an active war zone and too dangerous.
My paternal grandmother took me to a Buddhist nunnery – the Ngoc Phuong temple, for healing. There I met Sister Huynh Lien, the Mother Superior. The senior nun offered to see me weekly for a month. I arrived at the temple each week with a bunch of lilies or marigolds and placed it below the marble statue of Quan Yin at the main entrance. In her office, the head-nun instructed me to sit in the lotus position, on a soft cushion on the tiled floor. We would meditate for half-an hour in complete silence. Then she read me some poetry.
The following year, 1967, my maternal grandmother came to Sai Gon for the second time. She brought with her live chickens and ducks, big bags of rice, several dozens eggs, and an assortment of fresh fruit. To everyone’s great relief, she arrived at our house safely.
When she had gone, my mother and I contemplated a trip to Truong An. My father again discouraged us from going.
Shortly before the New Year of the Monkey, 1968, we received a telegram from Uncle Muoi, informing us that my grandmother had died. My mother and I packed in a hurry, and we headed off.
VILLAGE REVISITED
“Oh! This war without end, war without end. Tomorrow or today, today or tomorrow. Tell me my fate, when will I die”
Vietnamese soldier
“What good is the talk of freedom and democracy, if one is not alive to enjoy it?”
Vietnamese peasant
The sky was pitch-dark. My mother and I, each with a small traveling bag, walked briskly from our house to the main road. Neither of us had had breakfast because it was too early. I couldn’t find anything meaningful to say to my mother. From time to time I slowed down my speed to accommodate hers. In the stillness of the early morning hours, we only heard our own footsteps. Mother was wearing a silky purple blouse, black satin trousers, and a pair of wooden clogs. Her hair was coiled into a neat bun. She hadn’t forgotten her conical hat, and she looked very much the same as she did four years earlier – the look of a typical peasant, with the exception of her wooden footwear. She had always been proud of her rural background and resolutely refused to dress like city people. I was wearing a white cotton blouse and beige khaki trousers and black leather sandals.
We turned towards the large theatre near Ba Chieu market. The street was still relatively quiet, with very little traffic. A cyclo appeared and we signaled it to stop. My mother and I shared the seat. She instructed the driver, “Directly to the bus depot in Phu Lam, Cho Lon. And no scenic route, please.” I felt most uneasy during the half-hour journey on the cyclo, being squeezed next to my mother.
It was five-thirty when we arrived at the bus depot, and we were the only passengers on the bus. Sitting in a middle row, my mother was in the most solemn mood, speaking very little. I was uncomforta- ble being so close to her but I dared not change my seat. I observed my surroundings in semi-darkness through the bus windows. Not far from the bus terminus there was a Chinese cafe where a few men on footstools were gulping down noodle soup and rice porridge. There were men smoking cigarettes and chatting.
I could see a vehicle repair shed run by two cheerful men in shabby, oil stained clothes. Other passengers soon arrived and filled some of the buses. Women hawkers appeared with trays of freshly prepared food -- sweet corn on the cob, hot steamed buns, French bread sandwiches, steamed glutinous rice wrapped in banana leaves, slices of watermelon, pineapple, green mango, and various types of fresh fruit juice. I felt hungry. My mother had already made a decision, “We will buy something to eat in Can Tho. Everything is cheaper there, and better.”
The bus started up, now so full that several young men had to cling onto the steel rails and rims on the outside. We were moving so smoothly that I thought the bus was being propelled by the wind. We passed by a long row of shops, offices, cafes, and restaurants with signs written in both Vietnamese and Chinese. They somehow looked less intimidating than before, when I’d first arrived in Sai Gon.
The early morning sun was shining and I breathed in the fresh cool breezes. We reached the province of Long An. Again it reminded me of my paternal grandmother’s birthplace. Behind the wide green fields I imagined hidden pineapple farms, one of which had been a secret meeting place of Granduncle Cuong and Madame Thap to begin their journey on foot to Ha Noi. Had I been sitting next to my father on this bus, I would certainly have asked him more questions. It was here that a culture of local poetry arose to unify opposition to the Strategic Hamlets scheme, and where the local residents would rely on their women’s talents and artillery skills in combat.
Our rice fields have become our fortress
Our pineapple fields are now hidden battlefields
The villagers have become guerrilla soldiers
Family and family are united with one heart
The American aggressors will bury themselves here
Under the feet of the soldiers of Rach Dao
The American aggressors will have no way to escape
From the ‘magical crossbows’ of the women of Tan Chau
Mid morning we arrived at a ferry to cross the Front River (Tien Giang), also called the Upper Mekong. Standing on the ferry with many other passengers and the local food hawkers, I held onto the iron rail and watched the sparkling white waves, my hair billowing out in the wind. The vast river was gleaming, milky with silt, but reflecting the blueness of the sky. I bought a French bread sandwich filled with barbecued meat and pickles, and two clusters of sugar cane. My mother didn’t seem to have any appetite. “I don’t want anything right now,” she said in a low voice.
I fell asleep. The bus crossed the Back River (Hau Giang) and passed through Can Tho. I woke up to find we were already at the Long My open-air market. It was early afternoon and there were still many vendors and customers, laughing, shouting and bargaining. Not long after, we arrived in Thanh Chau and found Uncle Muoi and his son Thanh, waiting by the river. Each had a white shirt on. Their black sampan was bobbing up and down in the water under the blazing sun. I had always seen Uncle Muoi in all-black before and was intrigued by the change. Anxious to know the cause of Grandmother’s death, my mother asked Uncle Muoi and he invited us to sit down on the riverbank before he reported:
That evening Mother went to see Big Sister, who had been ill for weeks with a chest infection. Because of heavy rain, she stayed until it was quite late, and on her way back she fell down in the rice paddy, about twenty metres from your old house. She was hit by a strong gust of wind, fainted, and wasn’t able to get up. It was unfortunate that nobody from Mrs Hoang’s household knew about it. After waiting until past mid night, Thanh and I went to search for her. But she was gone by the time we found her…
Uncle Muoi’s voice trembled and I could see drops of tears from his gloomy eyes.
My mother burst out crying with both hands covering her face, “Oh dear Mother! My very dear mother! Why did you leave us? Why did Heaven take you away? I am now lost in mourning. I will always treasure you, Mother… and your sacrifice…and those trips to Sai Gon. You had saved all the chickens, all the ducks…” Uncle Muoi tried to comfort my mother, as if she were a little girl, “Cry no more Sister! Mother’s spirit hasn’t left us. Every night we will light the incense and her spirit will come home to be with us…”
We rose and our feet advanced along the riverbank. None of us spoke. Soon we heard voices of the food vendors and customers. My mother quickly wiped away her tears and put on a forced smile. She invited Uncle Muoi and Thanh to have bun bo kho, beef noodle soup, with us. This dish consisted of fresh noodles made from rice flour and small chunks of lean beef simmered in coconut milk, lemon grass, cinnamon, garlic, onion, chili, and curry powder. It was served with fresh bean-sprouts and herbs. The delicious aroma had always tempted my mother, but she didn’t seem to enjoy it this day. After the bun bo kho mother ordered four green coconuts. We drank fresh coconut juice before getting into Uncle Muoi’s sampan.
It would take many hours from the town to Truong An village, and in our state of mourning, we sat quietly. Uncle Muoi and Thanh would paddle the sampan all the way. My mother offered to help but they refused. Every time they plunged their paddling blades into the smooth water, I thought of the hardships they had to endure, and how the burden of rural life and the war seemed to go on forever. The sky gradually darkened and the sampan continued to glide swiftly and smoothly through the channels and water-palm jungles. There was no wind. Every palm leaf stood silent and motionless in a somber mood. I heard the buzzing sound of mosquitoes and startled voices from another sampan. With a coconut shell cup, I was scooping out the water that had come into the sampan from a small hole in the hull.
We arrived at my grandmother’s house – soon to belong to Uncle Muoi – around ten in the evening. He moored the sampan and we walked to the kitchen hut. Mo Muoi had kept a hot meal for us. She was sitting on a wooden stool next to the terra cotta burners, with the fire still glowing. She served us grilled chicken with lemon grass, bitter-melon soup, and steamed rice. I ate little, anxious to go outside to look for the poon tree. I went on my own, since Uncle Muoi’s children had gone to bed. They had been waiting for our arrival but were too exhausted to stay awake any longer, as they had stayed up very late on previous nights for my grandmother’s funeral.
Outside there was no moonlight or starlight but I could hear the steady movement of water in the river. I followed the sound and blindly traced my way through the darkness to the beloved poon tree. It had grown enormously, and its top now formed a giant umbrella overhanging the riverbank. I wrapped my arms around its trunk, then slowly let go of it.
I ran to the other side of the house, near the kitchen hut. In semi-darkness I saw some shiny banana leaves fluttering in the wind. I made blind steps towards the banana grove. A man stood in front of me. I stopped dead and almost screamed. At that moment the wind blew what seemed to be the shirt’s sleeve. I realized that there was nobody standing there after all. It was just a shirt over the banana trunk. It belonged to Gai, Uncle Muoi’s eldest son. He’d apparently been working there in the afternoon, perspiring heavily, and had simply hung his shirt there.
I went to sleep that night – or tried to – in the bed of my deceased grandmother, a simple wooden platform that had been erected by Uncle Phan after we returned from the Strategic Hamlet. Next to the bed, on a small table, were a kerosene lamp and a copper tray meant for betel leaves and areca nuts. The lamp was lit that night as usual, but the tray had been emptied by Mo Muoi. Beside these and a few articles of clothing, my grandmother had had no other possessions. This humble bedroom of hers had a small window facing the stream at the side of the house, where Uncle Muoi kept his sampan at night. The tangerine tree outside her window bore luscious fruits and had always been her delight.
What a harsh life she had endured! She had been born into comfort but had lived nearly all her life in extreme poverty. I never felt as close to her as to my other grandmother but I did love her. When she died, Mo Muoi found several of my letters in her blouse pocket, carefully wrapped in a piece of clear plastic. She said that my grandmother had
saved all my letters. However, when I sorted through them there were several missing. Some had never reached her.
I heard my mother’s weeping in the next room. She was comforted by Mo Muoi with cups of green tea. My mother was upset that my grandmother had been buried before we arrived. Uncle Muoi explained to her why they had waited for only two days and not longer, “We feared that if an air raid occurred, or if the village were to be attacked by artillery, we would be at high risk of having to abandon Mother’s body.”
As soon as I woke up, I heard Mo Muoi’s voice asking my mother, “Sister, have you brought a white blouse with you?” Mother replied, “Oh! I didn’t even think about it. No, I don’t own anything white. I have other colours but not white.” Mo Muoi frowned and then hurried to her bedroom to fetch a white blouse of her own and asked my mother to put it on. The authorities, she explained, had instructed the villagers to wear white tops in order to distinguish them from the “Viet Cong”.
I’d brought with me two white blouses, two pairs of trousers, one in black, the other in sandy khaki. I also had a pair of pyjamas in white cotton, with some blue embroidery. I brought along soap powder to wash my clothes, and a dozen soap bars and six tubes of toothpaste as gifts for my relatives.
Although I had worn sandals during the journey, when I woke up in the morning I wanted to go barefoot like everybody else. I rolled my trousers up to the knees. Thanh and I started off toward Uncle Phan’s house but before we got there the bottoms of my feet started hurting me terribly. I could no longer go barefoot. It was then I realized I was no longer a country girl.