When I was a little boy, my family lived in Sai Gon, the capital of South Vietnam. This was during the war years before the communist North conquered the south. In those early days of my youth, Sai Gon was considered a safe haven from the war. We hardly had ever heard of gun fires.
As a child, I used to think that firecrackers were one of my greatest pleasures during Vietnam's New Year's festival or "Têt". The money that I got from my parents and from relatives as a New Year's gift was important because it would afford me to buy firecrackers. I liked the loud bangs they made, the smell of gun powder, the explosive force that threw a can high up in the air, the anticipation while lighting a fuse with an incense stick, even the bright red color of firecracker debris.
My deep passion for playing with firecrackers was interrupted for several years after the incident of Tet Offensive in 1968, the year of the Monkey. That year I was forbidden to play with firecrackers. My parents only told me: "The police will put you in jail if you do". At that time, I thought it was unreasonable but I also understood vaguely that it was because the war. Soon after that, the war spread to our neighborhood, affected our family lifestyle and even my childhood passion for firecrackers.
Before the Tet festival of 1968, the word "war" had had no meaning to me. Only adults used that word, with the exception of Lam, a little dark-skin country boy, son of uncle Chin, who just moved in to live in the thatch-roof shack behind our home. Lam and I quickly became good friends. During our first day together, I showed Lam the toys that I had and he showed me some tricks that he learned from his country friends. After a few days, such entertainment around the house became boring. We went to different areas of our neighborhood. Sometimes we went to pick tamarinds at the house of Mr. Bieu. Sometimes we went to pick plums at the house of Uncle Lanh. Occasionally, when we had lots of time, we went a few kilometers farther to ask for guavas and plum-cherries at the house of Mrs. Chanh.
One day, we ventured all the way to the river bank. Lam was so excited as he had returned to the river behind his old home. With no hesitation, he took off his clothes and jumped right in the water. He swam straight to a big wooden boat that was anchored a good distance from the bank to join a group of kids who were lining up to jump in the water from the deck of the boat. After having enough of the jumping, Lam swam back to the bank, put on his clothes while he was still wet. He asked me: "Big", my Vietnamese nickname, "Why didn't you swim?"
"I don't know how to swim." Actually, I could swim. My uncle used to take me to the public swimming pools in the city. I had never dared to swim in the river however, perhaps because I had heard horror stories of the river devils and monsters from deep waters. Furthermore, I had seen the lifeless body of a drowning victim in this part of the river few years back.
A few days before Tet, we stayed around the house to play with firecrackers. Lam appeared sad because he missed the activities of the country side. He told me stories, one of them was about Mister Hai Bua, his neighbor who died a day before a past Tet festival in an explosion. Mister Hai Bua had found a live mortar while working in the field. He brought it home and tried to open it to extract the gun powder to make firecrackers. The mortar exploded and killed him. Lam told me that story with the same attitude as when he told other horror stories. He would then end it with a meaning less curse as was his habit.
Early morning on the first day of the New Year, our family went for a traditional walk to welcome good spirits. We heard unusual sounds of firecrackers everywhere.
My mother said: "It's still too early for so many firecrackers."
My father said: "Sound like machine guns."
Occasionally, there were big bangs like "Tong" (big) firecrackers. When we got home, my father turned on the radio and we learned that the fighting was going on inside Sai Gon. The government issued a curfew and prohibited the selling of or playing with firecrackers. To me, that was the end of Tet festivities. That day, my father immediately built a makeshift bomb shelter. He put sand bags on top of and around my wooden bed. My mother and I packed important items in a few bags to be ready in case we had to flee.
Everyone in the neighborhood was nervous and scared. My parents showed the serious concerns on their faces. Uncle Chin and his family seemed untouched, like nothing was happening. Not even when the fighting and death was going on around them.
My father asked uncle Chin: "If it becomes too dangerous to stay here, where would you go?" Uncle Chin responded: "We fled our farm and country home to come here to Sai Gon. That is the end of our fleeing. Where else can we go?"
The sounds of gun fire diminished after a few days. There were a few houses burned and some people dead in my neighborhood. That was a lot better than other areas of the city. During that New Year I did not have chance to visit my grand parents, aunts and uncles, where I normally received the most money in a little red pouch, for good luck. No one had their minds to wish each other prosperity anymore. People just wished others to be healthy and stay alive.
After a few weeks, the lives of everyone returned to normal, but only during the day time. At night, everyone had to prepare to run to shelters to take cover from mortar shelling. The first night was an experience that I would never forget. When my family was deep in sleep, suddenly, a huge explosion that shook both the sky and the earth threw everyone out of bed. I was awake but still did not believe my ears. Then came another explosion. This time I was a believer. At the same time, I heard my father yell: "It's mortar shelling! Everybody get in the shelter! Mom, get the children into the shelter!"
I was the first one to get in the shelter (under my bed.) then my sisters and brothers rushed in. In the darkness of the night, I could hear the sounds of heads bumping each other's or to the lower edge of the bed. Under the bed I could hear their thumping heartbeats. When everyone was in, my mother said in her fearful voice: "Children, chant Buddha's name."
Everyone started doing so. I also did so quietly, regretting how I used to make fun of bald-headed Buddhist monks!
Almost every night, we had to run into the shelter a few times as our neighborhood was targeted by mortars. Each time, it lasted only a few minutes, but after that when we returned to our beds, we just lay there in fear, with our eyes opened and mind ready for the next mortar round, whether it came or not.
The shelling created something for Lam and I to do every morning. We went to see where the mortars had hit to pick up mortar shrapnel. As kids, the twisted and discolored shrapnel held some fascination to us. It was the morbid equivalent of collecting sea shells at the beach. Sometimes mortars hit an empty patch of land, sometimes it was a house. The last place that we went to see was a small house of a mother and two children. On that morning, we were early. The corpses weren't moved yet as the victims did not have any relatives who lived close by. Each body was covered by a straw mat. Everyone who was there seemed terrified and felt sorrow for the victims. Lam opened the straw mats to have a peek at the bodies. The first one was a little boy about 4 years old. He suffered major trauma to the head and shoulder. I was horrified and did not dare to look at the other two bodies. Lam looked at all of them and each time he said a meaningless curse. On the way home, I asked Lam: "Were you afraid at all?" "Afraid of what?", he replied. "In my country home, I saw a lot of this. People died in bombing were usually worse looking than this."
From that time, I did not have any chance to play with firecrackers. I would hear instead the sounds of gun fire, mortar shelling and bombing. Those sounds brought me terrifying feelings instead of excitement. A few months later, the war once again came to our neighborhood. This time, many more people died. Everyone had to flee their homes and take refuge in the inner protected area of central Sai Gon. We stayed with a friend of my father, uncle Hoanh and his family, for two months. During that time, I noticed that my parents were constantly talking about our home. They just couldn't wait to go back even though uncle Hoanh, his wife and children were generous and kind. My parents felt that they were too much of an inconvenience for uncle Hoanh's family to endure for such a long period of time.
When the fighting subsided somewhat, my parents decided to return to our home. The whole area was devastated. Many houses were burned. Ours fortunately suffered only light damage, just a few big holes on the walls and several smaller holes on the roof. Uncle Chin's house seemed in similar condition, but it was more difficult to see because it was a wooden house with a thatched roof. I found many ammunition shells and bullets scattered all around. A lot of them were on the second floor and on the balcony. Some were live ammo. I saw many rocket or mortar shrapnel near our kitchen and uncle Chin's front door. Some were thick and heavy with sharp jagged edge. They no longer held fascination for me, only fear and dread. I wondered where uncle Chin, his wife and my friend Lam fled to. I did not dare to think more about them and went to see a neighbor house that was totally burned.
Standing on the ground of a friend's house, at one corner, I saw the remains of a chair that I sometimes sat on when I visited my friend. At another spot, there was the charred corpse of a yellow cat that I used to pet. I felt a lump in my throat and despite my best effort to control my emotion, tears rolled down my face. I thought about Lam. Had he been there with me, he would have said: "It's nothing to cry about. In my country home, I have seen many houses burned worse than this."
On that day, I thought I'd experienced and understood "war" a little more. I understood my friend Lam better. And I realized how hard it was for him and his country friends to endure and survive since they were little children. I experienced the pain of great loss and uncertainty of life in war time. And I understood why no parents would want their children to know and face such fear at a young age..
Several months after the second offensive, the activities in our neighborhood gradually returned to normal. A unit of American soldiers came and built a small refugee camp, a market, and a little school on our land. To create more space, they filled fish ponds with mud that was sucked in from the river by a huge vacuum on a boat. The American soldiers were very popular with me and other children. I had several chances to practice English every day and enjoyed the short and routine "text book" conversations.
One day, I was watching my mother clearing a shallow ditch that drained water from the kitchen to a remaining pond behind our house. I said: "Mom, let me do it". She refused and told me to go in the house. I went in and sat on my bed. A minute later, I heard a horrific explosion that shook my bed and the whole house. I was terrified and about to call my siblings to go into the bomb shelter. At that moment I heard a low moan from my mother, from outside: "Big, I am hurt! I can't see!" She paused for a second: "Where are you Big?... Are you hurt?"
I rushed out and saw my mother sitting flat on the ground by the ditch. Her upper half, especially her face, was covered with mud. Blood was trickling out from her eyes and from several spots on her body. I called for help: "Help!, Help! My mother is injured!"
A few neighbors rushed in to help. They took her to a water tank nearby and washed off the mud. She asked while crying: "Where is Big?... Is he all right?"
I answered: "I am here Mom, I am all right,.. I am not hurt." My mother seemed relieved and stopped crying.
I ran to the street and luckily spotted a patrol unit which was approaching. I waived and stopped them: "Sir, my mother is hurt. There was an explosion..."
The officers went in the back and took my mother on their patrol vehicle, an open- top Jeep, straight to the nearest hospital. It was about half an hour away.
A few minutes later my grand mother came and sent someone to communicate with my father who was at work. The rest of the day, we were waiting for news from the hospital. Late in the afternoon, my father came home with food for dinner. I just remembered that I was very hungry, but can't recall what kind of food we ate that evening, or if we ever enjoyed it. We learned that our mother would live but she may loose her eyesight.
The next morning, we all went to the hospital. My mother had a big white bandage around her head and eyes, but I could still see a little smile on her face. She touched everyone of us. I thought she touched me longer than she did the rest as if she wanted to be sure that I was all right.
We came to the hospital everyday to visit my mother. Then after about a week, she was released to go home. We had a little reunion celebration when we learned the full extend of her injury. She still had both eyes but lost 100% vision in the left eye. The right eye was only slightly damaged. The right thumb and surrounding muscles were moderately damaged. Her thumb could still move but it was quite limited. Her upper body, and especially her arms and legs were punctured with many large and small shrapnel. Doctor was only able to remove the larger ones. The rest are still embedded in her body. Apparently, the blade of the garden hose had shielded her torso and vital organs before disappeared in the explosion.
Decades later, shrapnel still extrudes from my mother's body and leaves many scars on her skin. For me and my siblings, the vivid memory of that day, and the anguish of war are still fresh in our minds.
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