| FLOWN WITH THE WIND DoDung If every person is born under a star, then I wonder which star I was born under! At the beginning of 1946, my whole family, including my grandmother, my parents, my father’s younger sister Nga, who had just turned ten, and my brother Dũng, who was only a few months old, had to carry each other out of Hanoi. Just following the crowd, we went all the way to Viet Tri, Lao Cai, Yen Bai, heading upstream close to the border with China. Each evening, my grandmother would watch the night slowly descend with a heavy heart; she saw evacuees die of exhaustion, die of malaria; she saw her dear grandson without milk to drink, having to slurp porridge, gnaw on yams; and my mother’s belly grew bigger every day! Grandmother discussed with the family about returning to the lowlands. In March 1947, the family returned to Phuc Yen because we heard there was a midwife opening a maternity home there. And one moonless, starless night, my mother went into labor. There was a curfew, so no one could go out at night, and the midwife was in the neighboring village. The whole family was in a rush, my father lit a torch, my grandmother held an oil lamp, and the two of them helped my mother go. Aunt Nga stayed behind to look after my brother, who had just turned two. The weather was still chilly. The black silhouettes cast on the road, through the light of the oil lamp and the torch, flickered and swayed like ghostly apparitions. And that night, in a thatched hut, on a bamboo bed that was not long enough for someone to lie straight, my mother writhed in labor pain. In the black darkness, my grandmother had to go to the pond to fetch buckets of water, used a basket to catch leeches, then filtered it again and boiled it, mixing it with a bit of purple medicine to bathe the newborn baby girl who cried out upon arrival. When I understood, I exclaimed: _ Why do I have to suffer like this, Grandma? Grandmother gently stroked my hair and comforted me: _ Because of the upheaval, everyone suffers, dear! But you are very lucky. You were born with a maternity home even if it’s just a thatched hut. There was a midwife from Hanoi who came, there was a band to wrap the umbilical cord. You had a grandmother, and a father right beside you. There are those whose mothers had to give birth in straw heaps or in the toilet because the host didn’t allow them in the house. Then they had to cut the cord with a sharp bamboo strip… How could she have boiled the filtered water to make it clean and bathe you with purple medicine like I did? At the end of 1947, after days of trudging, crossing ferries and rivers, facing the hardships, and dealing with French troops guarding the outposts, our family finally returned to Hanoi! In just nearly two years of separation, Hanoi was ravaged, the scenery devastated and desolate. In my childhood, the peaceful days in Hanoi, my brother and I often went to Aunt Truong’s house, my father’s older sister, to play with our cousins. She told stories about the family tree and taught us about honoring our ancestors. On summer afternoons, we siblings took each other to the lake’s edge and then wandered to Hue Street to have Cẩm Bình ice cream, or Aunt would give us money to go to the Children’s Pavilion to swim, to the Lạc Hồng cinema to watch Charlot, the skinny and fat brothers, and Zorro… In our innocent youth, we breathed in the air of a thousand years of civilization, with our naive eyes capturing the lovely images of willows drooping by the Sword Lake. In the Fall of 1954, the country was divided in two, and our family had to leave Hanoi to migrate south to avoid the threat of Communism! Twenty years living peacefully in Saigon under the warm sunshine. I was the eldest sister in a large, happy middle-class family. After graduating from Trung Vuong High School, I enrolled in Pharmacy School and by the end of the school year, I got married. In 1972, I graduated and simultaneously welcomed my first granddaughter, and two years later, I had my second child. Whenever I had free time, I enrolled in a postgraduate program in Political Business at the branch of Dalat University, which opened right on the floor of Tax Department Store. After April 30, 1975, I was thrown into life cruelly. Not yet thirty, with two young children to care for. Both paternal and maternal sides were still there but I didn’t dare to trouble them. Everyone was grieving in this life-changing period. Everyone had burdens to bear. Two main pillars of the family are my father and husband who have to be wrapped up and sent to the so-called re-education camps without knowing when they will return. My eldest is “Củ Mì who is three years old, and my younger child “Củ Khoai” is not even a year old. The two little ones have to stumble along with their mother to trade at the market. At noon, I brought the kids into the Tax Trade Center, spread a plastic sheet for them to lie on, and rubbed their backs to help them sleep while I felt angry and choked up. Just a day ago, only the beggars slept like that, yet now all three of us were huddled here. Looking up at the upper floor of the Trade Center, just a few months ago, I was happily carrying bags into this place to attend post-graduate classes. How could it be… so unpredictable?! After the lunch break, when the Trade Center opened, I gathered the kids again, took them to the roadside, and spread a plastic sheet to continue selling. I thought that by working like this, I could earn food to feed the children and the husband, but one day to beautify the city named after Hồ Chí Minh, the youth with red bands rushed in and pointed guns at us to drive us away. I bitterly grabbed the children and ran. Fortunately, I was not caught or robbed, although we only had a handful of stray goods in two wicker baskets. The sky in Saigon no longer looks beautiful, the sun no longer shines brightly, and the scenery is covered in gray. One day, feeling a sense of sorrow, I wandered to Tam Da Trade Center, took a chance and rented a small booth in the stall of PMC, and then got lucky, sewing and painting… Utilizing all of my side jobs to earn food to feed the children. NH divided her store into five parts, the outermost being two small booths, one for me and the other for Vân Ly. Behind me was NC’s booth, where lively and cheerful BH was. Opposite NC was the stall of couple NXH with the skillful and capable wife DT. NH kept the largest booth inside. Looking back at that time, I felt joyful because suddenly I found myself amidst a crowd of artists. Occasionally, I got to converse with writer Mai Thảo and poet Trần Dạ Từ. Every now and then, I went to PMC’s house to enjoy the delicious bánh bột lọc and the amazing shrimp and pickled onion dish made by Mạ. Following the trend, fashion progressed from fabric clothes to painted t-shirts. I also bought thin fabric to dye and then cut and sew into Indian-style shirts and painted patterns for the younger ones to embroider. Through the trend of selling painted t-shirts, NC and NXH hired people to paint all Disney and Cartoon characters. As for me, I painted myself! In the evenings, after lulling the kids to sleep, I would sit down to paint, usually of a young girl, and if the painting turned out well, I’d think “Suddenly the old sadness rests in your eyes” (Poem by Cung Vĩnh Viễn). If I couldn’t paint well that day, I’d think “The demon appears when the moon rises.” When I got too tired, I just scribbled some circles like Olympic medals, yet whatever came out was sold immediately because… “unique”! When I was doing well, I couldn’t keep up with the painting alone, so I had to pass some work to the younger ones, with free themes. Phương Nam was also a great help at that time, sometimes painting clowns, or snails, or a bunch of falling yellow leaves… When she saw her works displayed on the streets, she felt like boasting about them. Next came tablecloths, sets of robes, embroidered ao dai for those who got an exit permit and for those who began dressing well. While I was doing business peacefully, there was a campaign to reform the industry and commerce of the city. Cadres came to Tam Da Trade Center, gathering everyone together to explain the state’s policies. All businesses would become state-owned, everyone would become employees, with no more individual trading. All commodities and materials would be nationalized, while production materials would not be seized. Yet, the very next morning, a group of about four or five officials from the district reform board came to my house to take inventory. After a while searching, they took away the sewing machine, the overlock machine, along with some fabric and clothes that were half-made. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be resentful. Indeed, it was a public robbery right in the middle of the day! I filed a complaint and sent it everywhere. One day, I received a summons. I brought the boy to a house on Gia Long street, the house was repurposed as an office for the ward renovation department of district one. The downstairs had a desk, with several people working. I was instructed to go upstairs. An entirely empty room, with a hammock hanging alone. A man around fifty years old, shirtless and wearing army pants, was lying around, one leg on the hammock and one foot touching the ground to swing. I hesitated to turn back down the stairs. – Is that you, the one here to complain? Come in! Recognizing him as the person who delivered the state policy on business at Tam Da shopping center the other day, I turned around holding the child and quietly sat down right at the doorway. Fortunately, when I was called to go, my mother had carefully reminded me to bring the child along so that if anything happened to me, they would have to return him home and my mother would know where to find me. – So, what’s the matter? Speak up! – Sir… – No need, you don’t have to call me sir! I hesitated: – Dear uncle… Dear … Seeing him silent, I continued: – Dear uncle, I work as a tailor at Tam Da shopping center. – Are you the owner or an employee? – Yes, I rent the shop, doing contract sewing. – And then? – Officials came to my house to inventory and confiscate my sewing machine, overlock machine, and several pieces of fabric from customers for sewing. – You are the shop owner, so it’s correct that they confiscated it. Soon all shops will be nationalized, and you will go into a collective; if you work as a tailor, you will have machines from the agency, so you don’t need a private machine! The grievance rose to the top of my head, and I tried to suppress my feelings and speak softly: – Dear uncle, the state clearly stated that only business materials would be confiscated, not production materials. The machine is for me to do contract sewing. I am not selling the sewing machine! He glared at me: – Who told you that? I calmly replied: – Uncle! You yourself taught that. I remember very clearly. I listened attentively because you taught it very well. You spoke very well! He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, then stared at me intently. I felt a chill down my spine waiting for his verdict. – Alright, leave your papers here, you can go home, I will consider your case! I placed the boy in a small seat attached to the rear of the mini bicycle. I rode away wanting to burst into tears. Crying to relieve the pent-up frustrations, the humiliations, the resentment. The streets of Saigon shaded by tall trees, followed by streets filled with green tamarind leaves… I could no longer see anything romantic, thinking of my husband who was in the reeducation camp. I missed him with an aching heart and felt utterly alone. At that time, Saigon was in the midst of the first campaign against capitalist merchants. The wealth of the owners of large factories, those big stores was astonishing to them. Gold counted by the kilogram, diamonds in heaps, goods, and machinery were carried off in large trucks. Houses were all villas or luxurious high-rise buildings, large and grand… Many victims, stripped of their property, stood still and died or were so frustrated that they self-destructed! A handful of belongings for me are just an old, tiny sewing machine and overlock machine, along with a few scraps of fabric that its poor owner was appealing for everywhere. They probably thought that letting it go would be a way to do good and keep it quiet! So, just when I least expected it, I received a summons to the warehouse to reclaim my items! Those of us in such dire situations but unwilling to struggle to protest would lose our belongings outright, because once the goods were cleared away, they would never be returned naturally! If too much frustration resulted in loud curses, they would have grounds to send you for reeducation indefinitely. I only knew to be grateful to the heavens and ancestors for protecting and sheltering me. Every day I still went to the shop to buy and sell; in the evening, after feeding, bathing my two children, and lulling them to sleep, I would prepare for the next day’s work. The children’s grandmother, after a time of struggling out in the elements, could not bear the harshness of rain and sunshine. she was forced to ask someone to build a cabinet to sell miscellaneous items right in front of her house so that I could leave my children for her to take care. In the summer of 1977, my elder daughter was 5, and my younger son was 3. At that time, Bác Ái School, a large Chinese school near my home, was changed to the Cao Đẳng Sư Phạm school, and a corner on Trần Bình Trọng and Thành Thái within the school campus was built into a kindergarten with three classes: Mầm, Chồi, and Lá for children aged 3 to 5. I was so happy that I invited two friends who also had small children of similar ages to my two kids to go register for admission. After filling out the application, my two children were not accepted because I was not a state employee. Holding the rejected application, my heart ached. The policy of the state after ’75 was that students should study near their homes. My siblings were studying at Trưng Vương high school, but after more than a year, they had to transfer back to Lê Hồng Phong (Petrus Ký) because it was closer to home. Now with father in the re-education camp and mother not being a state employee, what would be the future of my children! At that time, a person I called “Ông Trẻ” (my grandfather’s cousin) from the North, came to visit. He was a cadre in the Ministry of Health in Hanoi and, upon hearing my situation, said: _You must apply to become a state employee; your husband has gone for education, and if you stay as a “con phe,”* you never know when he will come back, and if you get pushed into the new economy, you’ll suffer! The next day I followed him to the Health Department. The chief was probably new, and she didn’t seem very friendly. After a while of chatting with him, she said she could arrange for me to work growing medicinal herbs in Hóc Môn with a salary of 58 dong a month. I hesitantly suggested: _Madam Chief, can you arrange for me to work in the city? Because I have two small children. She coldly laughed: _Are you the only one with small children? I felt a chill down my spine, and goosebumps rose on my skin. _Yes! Thank you, Madam Chief! I will go back to arrange things! A salary of 58$/month, I had to cycle from Chợ Lớn to Hóc Môn to work in the garden, then cycle back. A packet of sticky rice cost 2 dong, just enough for breakfast! There was no lunch, no drinking water. Who would take care of the two children and their father in prison?? Well, I had to be a “con phe”; it was tough, but at least we had something to eat. If I cycled every day so many kilometers to Hóc Môn to work in the garden and suddenly fell ill, who would take care of everything? In March 1978, my mother’s house was checked, properties were confiscated, the house was occupied, and we were evicted in the new economy for being labeled as a capitalist. My mother had to go everywhere to file complaints, pleading. In the end, my mother had to buy a thatched house in Long Thành, with an address so she could return home alone while my siblings were allowed to stay in one room of our house to continue their studies. At that time, my husband was released. The Tam Đa Ttrade Market was closed; goods and merchandise inside were all sealed! Fortunately, I had a business card with my name and address. I used those cards as receipts for customer orders, so after Tam Đa was closed, many people followed the address on the receipts to my home to place orders, and then those individuals referred others, so I still had work. My husband was assigned to teach at a Middle School in District 11 with a salary insufficient for one person’s breakfast. Day by day, he hunched over cycling to work; occasionally, he received a piece of pork weighing about 200 grams tied with a straw string. Outside of work, he had to take me to customers’ homes to pick up and deliver embroidered items. The two of us saved every little bit, earning enough to buy a bit of gold and then collect enough to exchange for an ounce. The following fragmented days were filled with anxiety. Life was precarious, with constant fear. Customers are watched by the local police when coming and going. Only a few ounces of gold we have, we don’t know where to hide. I heard they even have metal detectors, so no matter where, they can always find it. The hard-earned property of one’s own can always be subject to inspection or confiscation at any moment, with any excuse used to justify imprisonment. Sometimes I take a bus back to Long Thanh to visit my mother, and the scenery along the road is bleak, with the rural residents neglected, dressed in tattered clothes, and patched-up trousers. The primary school with its low thatched roof is dark and gloomy. Is it really true that in just a few years my homeland has become so miserable? Thinking about the future of the children is truly daunting. My spouse and I could return to the countryside to raise chickens, ducks, and live as laborious farmers to get by day by day, but for my children, the future is bleak! We have decided to go… we must go!! We must leave our beloved homeland behind. We risk everything to exchange it for one word: FREEDOM. DoDung *The term “con phe”: In Northern slang at that time, it referred to individual traders who were not part of the state-owned collective. |
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