Part I: Childhood Memories War has never been a part of my consciousness, but it has always been an inevitable part of my life. Even decades after the war ended, its impact can still be deeply felt in ways that are not obvious. A friend once told me that her friend--who has the capacity to see ghosts—went to Vietnam and was startled, because she never saw so many ghosts in a country before. On a literal level, I think it makes sense considering how so many deaths during the war are unjust, and not all are recognized and commemorated by the state in public. This can lead to ghosts who are unable to be liberated, for the unjust causes of their death are not addressed. On a more metaphorical level, I can’t help but think how people around me in some sense, have become ghosts in their own ways--either by being imprisoned by the past, paralyzed by old wounds or possessed by actual ghosts. This is what remained in my memories—a childhood riddled with poverty, addiction of gambling, tobacco, drinking, and also, the absent of my father. All around me were aunts and uncles who are troubled and struggled to get by. Majority of adults around me had a concrete profession. Life for them was so uncertain. One day you can casually go play, and another go in hiding from the mafia. Most of them resorted to gambling--games of luck to make money to feed their family. This is a vicious cycle of addiction that my family was caught in. My mom always uses the analogy that there is a gambling ghost that follows them when they played, which makes it impossible to stop. A fond and somewhat hilarious memory I have of this tragedy is how my mom, aunts, and uncles assembled themselves together to have a discussion about what all of them dreamt the night before. This would be followed with a rigorous analysis of these dreams to come up with some numbers for them to gamble on that day. I think this is so bad, but so good at the same time :D This habit would later caused grave material and psychological consequences to every family involved, which breed deep division among us in ways that can never be fully healed. I can’t help but think how my family’s vulnerability to addiction of gambling is somehow a product of the war and its post-war conditions. This would soon to be a source of conflict between my mom and dad. My dad was largely absent from my life because he was working in America to provide for the family. I never knew he fought for Southern Vietnamese Government, or how he had crossed the borders and walked to Thailand in the 80s. He was simply the man who brings me toys and chocolate from America. And later, he was the one who got a stroke and lives the rest of his life half-paralyzed, which I thought was a burden to the family. And lastly, he was the one who always yells at my mom for sinking in debt due to gambling. My mom is my world, and through hurting her, he broke my world apart. This left me with an emotional wound that would be stabbed again and again. When he is away, I longed for his presence. When he is around, I got afraid and anxious. Gradually, I was filled with fears of him, and eventually, I and my brother grew to hate him. It is as if I've lost my dad, to distance, to anger, to grudge, to stroke, to bullets, to a war I never knew about. I never really know who he is beyond these layers. And vice versa, he never knew who I am beyond the parts that annoyed him. He has lost the war, his war because he has made enemies out of us. Not only in my home, but I can feel the war in the streets. Every day, I saw weary or disabled elders walking around begging for money or selling lottery tickets. Sometimes they crawl as many don’t have enough body parts to support them. Some are deaf, and some are ill. Seeing them the street begging for a livelihood makes my heart beats and my soul burns. I feel a deep sadness and confusion, frustration and helplessness. It hurts seeing scenes like this everyday. I know that life is fragile, but it shouldn't be like this. This is deeply wrong, and it is not natural. Elders and disabled people shouldn't be walking around the streets to beg for a living. Like a stab in my heart that would not heal until it all goes away. My heart is heavy for them. It is heartbreaking just writing these words down. Although the struggle for peace has ended, the struggle to heal and to regenerate has only begun. As Martin Luther King proclaimed: “only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars.” Even though the war has left many deep cuts, we were able to somehow, rise above the test and find purpose in this tragedy. A story that I hold close to my heart is how when my grandmother tried to kill a chicken to prepare for Lunar New Year, but saw how he cried so hard, and that somehow touched her. Then, she vowed to never kill a chicken again. Stories like these passed down by my mom watered seeds of compassion in me, and they taught me what it means to show up with kindness when the world cries for it. Even though our family struggled with money, my mom never failed to give the elders, women or children begging on the streets the changes she had. Even when my dad obliterated her with words as sharp as swords, she still urged me to try and understand for him and what he must’ve been through. Like her mirror, I too learned to come alive and yearn to do something for the people left behind, to be a star amid the dark skies of the world, however small, however fleeting.
3 Comments
Rhea Miller
7/5/2019 06:32:40 am
Beautiful, Liem. Thank you. I am learning.
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Tricia
7/5/2019 08:58:49 am
Your story is bittersweet; your storytelling is beautiful. This is going to be a rich experience. I’m honored to be able to see it through your words.
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Linda Robinson
7/6/2019 08:43:16 am
You are a beautiful writer Liam. Indeed a star in the dark skies. Thank you. I look forward to the journey
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