The Forgotten Generation
From South Vietnamese to Vietnamese-AmericanBy Vui LeiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 Vui Le
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-6860-4Chapter One
Preparation
One day in late March of 1975, my Mom called Cha Do (Monsignor Dao) and asked him to release me from An Phong Hoc Vien, a seminary in Thu D'c, a small city several miles outside of Saigon, where I was a seminarian studying to become a Catholic Priest. The old priest, a relative who ran the seminary, called me to his office and, without explanation, said:
"Con ve di, M can con o' nh." Go home. Your mother needs you.
Confused and perplexed, I left my seminarian friends behind and took the bus home. All the while, I was scared as my Mom had never done this to me before. I was an excellent student and getting along reasonably well with everyone. The priests had always complained about my being too assertive, but Mom knew all about those complaints. For years, Mom and Dad paid my tuition in one lump sum at the beginning of each year; and for that, the priests had had a hard time letting me go, as they could not afford to make a refund.
The school year of 1974-1975 was particularly hard on the priests and teachers at An-Phong. Donations from support groups and from the Vietnamese Catholic Church dried up quickly, as everyone and every institution in Vietnam was anticipating the advance of the North Vietnamese Communist forces. It was difficult for the priests to keep us focused on our religious training and shield us from current events. Incidents of civil unrest had become regular occurrences in Saigon. Every month, there were multiple bieu tnh student protests and tu' thiu self incinerating suicides by Buddhist monks.
Once during a trip back to Saigon to visit the family, I came to an intersection where a massive commotion was taking place. People everywhere were pouring out into the street, running, yelling and waving their hands calling on other people to join them. They were excited and scared amid the confusion. Women and men dropped whatever they were doing and rushed out to to get a better look.
"Ve ku b con le ln, ch' khng het cho by gi'!" someone nearby yelled out. Hurry up. Go get your folks before it's too late!
Curious, I joined the crowd and asked an old man next to me, "C chuyen g vay Ch?" What is going on?
He paused and gave me a puzzled look as if I was supposed to know what was going on, and then he pushed his way into the crowd without answering.
A truck full of yellow-robed monks pulled up and stopped right at the center of the intersection. About thirty monks jumped out quickly one after another and formed a large circle at the center of the four-way crossroads.
People all around became talkative and excited as though they knew something of significance was about to happen. People in cars, trucks, on mopeds, bicycles and pedestrians came to a complete stop. Old men, ladies, business people and children formed circles behind the monks, but there was no police officer that I could see. I climbed on top of a metal newspaper stand and held onto the light pole at the corner of the intersection to get a better look.
As the truck drove away, I saw an elderly monk dressed in a traditional Buddhist yellow robe sitting solemnly in the center of the traffic circle. On each side of him a somber, younger monk wearing a similar garment sat on the hot asphalt. The older monk began to chant Buddhist prayers, and soon all the monks were chanting loudly.
"Nam M A Di D Phat, Nam M A Di D Pht ..." Praise to Budhist, they sang, and before long, older people in the crowd sat down and joined in.
A couple of minutes passed, and the two younger monks at the center stood up and pulled out small canisters of gasoline from under their robes. The crowd went wild. Some people started to cry, while others gasped loudly in shock. Women frantically covered their children's eyes while others rushed the smaller kids out of view.
A man standing next to me told me to get off the newspaper stand, and I politely refused.
The two monks poured the gasoline on the elder monk as he sat there chanting calmly. The gasoline soaked his robe and changed its color to a darkened orange, almost red as it clung to the monk's body. The smell of gas penetrated the air, and the monks sitting on the perimeter droned louder and louder.
"Nam M A Di D Phat, Nam M A Di D Phat, Nam M A Di D Phat, Nam M A Di D Phat, Nam M A Di D Phat, Nam M A Di D Phat ..." they cried, and the crowd added their voices to the uproar.
Peacefully, the elder monk reached under his robe and took out a lighter. His eyes remained closed and his chanting continued rhythmically. The other monks were now jabbering deafeningly while still sitting. The noise from the crowd grew louder as men and women cried out uncontrollably. Some wept openly; others covered their mouths in horror. It seemed as though the whole earth shook and wept for what was about to happen.
With a gentle flick of the lighter, the flames exploded in all directions around the old monk. He sat there in the middle of the fireball and the vision of his burning body was instantly seared into the memories of hundreds of Vietnamese who stood dumbfounded. Yet the old monk did not move. He did not cry out. The old monk was simply burned to death of his own will.
Black smoke billowed into the clear sky, as the awful acrid smell of burning flesh permeated the area. Men, women and children wept and comforted each other. The earlier astonishment on their faces had yielded to a look of sad resignation. Older men stood up and bowed deeply toward the center of the intersection where the old monk's remains were shrinking.
Now they prayed softly, "Nam M A Di D Phat, Nam M A Di D Phat ..."
We could hear the sirens of police and fire engines wailing loudly in the distance, as if to mourn the death of an old monk. In a hurried manner, the other monks gathered around the charred body and delicately wrapped him in a linen cloth. The truck they came in backed up slowly and the monks carefully loaded the body onto it. Then, as earlier, the monks one by one formed a single line and in an orderly fashion re-boarded the truck and drove away.
There were no religious or political speeches, no banners, no loud announcements, just flabbergasted onlookers standing around aimlessly, unable to comprehend what their eyes had just witnessed.
When the police finally arrived, the crowd dispersed and the intersection was inundated with normal heavy traffic as if nothing unusual had happened.
I jumped down from the newspaper stand, still dazed from what I had seen. As an eighth grade student, I was not equipped to understand the reasoning and implications of such an event, but I was thoroughly shaken by it. In my mind, I could not understand why no one had stopped the suicide of a gentle monk.
In a country where more than 80 percent of the population was non-Christian, I felt lonelier than ever being a Catholic and not quite comprehending the meaning of sacrifice by suicide. I was taught that it was a sin, but in observing the reverence of the people toward the elderly monk, I could not help but admire his profound courage and his remarkable willingness to die for his cause.
Then I thought about my Dad and his willingness to sacrifice for our country. A tremendous sadness overtook me, and I turned and walked away, wiping tears from my eyes.
The year 1975 was a difficult year for all Vietnamese. The Communist North Vietnamese had stepped up its attacks in the South, and more often each day, the sounds of gunfire could be heard closer to the cities. People of all ages were frightened by the news while convoys of soldiers and artilleries could be seen crisscrossing the countryside.
Everyday, dozens of American GMC trucks filled with Vietnamese soldiers rumbled down Highway 1 on the outskirts of town. They were escorted by heavy M1 and T-41 tanks and personnel carriers that shook the earth as they drove by. Unlike times before, the army rangers did not smile and wave to the people; instead they sat quietly with apprehensive looks on their faces.
In the city, the air was thick with anxiousness. Many businesses and shops had closed, their metal folding doors shut tightly behind the hastily hand-written signs that read: -Dng Cu'a, Xin Tro Lai Ngy Khc
- Closed, Please Come Back Another Day
The open market was more crowded than ever, as people bargained and stocked up on supplies. Churches and temples were full of people at all times of the day. Children were running around, as their parents had taken them out of school and made them stay close. Old men gathered at sidewalk cafs to listen to the news and gossip. And the lines at the banks spilled out into the streets. At Tn So'n Nhat International Airport and Ben Bach Dang (Saigon Seaport), thousands of people stood in line for hours waiting to leave the country.
At my old school An Phong, the priests and other teachers had instructed us to pray, make sacrifices and ask God for help. Everyday, while we calmly prayed for our nation and its people, I could not help but notice the troubled looks on the faces of these peaceful teachers.
All year long I had been a good student, a team leader for my class; I studied hard and ranked first in my class in many subjects. From the early morning's math and science classes to the afternoon's Vietnamese Language, History and Music Appreciation classes to my dreaded Conversational French lectures taught by my favorite, Father Tien Loc, I had done well. Even Father Tien Loc, a young talented priest who could speak several languages, was pleasantly surprised by my dedication to his subject that year.
The only subject in which I did not excel in was Theology; however, no grade was given in that subject. To many of my classmates, Theology class was the most important one. The priests used these lectures to select the seminarians whom they would invite back the following year. I was just not one of them.
It was only a couple more weeks until the end of the school year, and I knew for certain that I would receive many academic honors. At the beginning of the year, I'd made a promise to make my parents proud; so when Father Do called me to his office and let me go, I knew it must be something of great importance for Mom to take me out of school at such time.
I asked the bus driver to drop me off at Thi Ngh near So' Th (Vietnam National Zoo) and started to wander the streets of Saigon making my way back to our home near Cho' L'n. I saw soldiers, policemen, public workers and civilians constructing concrete barricades throughout town. Wherever no concrete barriers were available, people built makeshift blockades out of wood and barbed wire. These structures were designed to stop trucks and tanks from entering the city, but, at the same time, they caused widespread havoc and massive traffic jams for citi residents.
Meanwhile people were nailing their windows shut with wooden boards. Some went as far as using barbed wire along their fences. Walking through Saigon that late March, among the heavy traffic noises, I could hear the clatter of hammers pounding and of construction equipment thundering. It was an unnatural symphony from a city desperate to do something to protect itself.
Yet Saigon was still beautiful. I remember rows and rows of tall tamarind trees with red-striped yellow flowers lining streets, throwing soft shade onto the ground leading to majestic buildings and parks. In the courtyards of people's houses, tall plumeria plants had started to yield their first yellow and deeply pink flowers and filled the air with a sweet gentle fragrance.
I walked past the US Embassy, a huge building with high walls. Two American marines with semi-automatic M16s assault riffles stood guard on each side of the main gate. Millions of families both in the North and in the South would be affected by the decisions made behind these walls and perhaps in buildings like these in a land so far away. Down the street stood Dinh Doc Lap Independence Hall, where the president of South Vietnam and his family resided. It was a beautiful building built in a traditional French colonial low-rise style with elaborate decorative windows and expansive front steps. This was another place where decisions were being made that would affect millions of Vietnamese. I thought of my Dad and all that he was fighting for and silently said a prayer for him, wherever he was.
I took a left turn and stopped by Nh Th' D'c B (Vietnamese National Cathedral). It was a graceful looking church in the center of Saigon. The French built it with the dramatic trappings of Notre Dame in Paris. In front, there was a park and at the center of the park, an enormous statue of Mary standing on a huge red marble pedestal holding the earth in her hands, looking up to heaven as if she were handing it to God. The inside of the Church was dark, serene and peaceful.
My Mom had taken the older kids including me to attend mass here on many occasions. It was where the rich and powerful Vietnamese Catholics in Saigon went to see and be seen. Every Sunday, people dressed up in their best Sunday's clothes with men in western suits and women in their best traditional o-Di (national Vietnamese dresses that are long flowing down to the ankles and have splits on both sides going back to the waists, usually worn with either white or black satin pants). The famous and the wannabes came early to make sure that other people could see them sitting up in the front rows.
The masses were often long and boring, but everyone sat attentively. After mass, my Mom always called a taxi and took us to Cho' Ben Thnh (Ben Thanh Market) nearby. Of course, we could have walked the six or seven blocks to it, but my Mom made sure that other people saw we were taxiing away in our best clothes.
I followed the familiar paths and made my way to Cho' Ben Thnh. Saigon's central market was a large non-air-conditioned structure that covered three square city blocks. The French built the market for people to congregate and buy and sell their goods. Over the years, it accumulated permanent kiosks with rows of fresh meats and fish next to rows of fruits, vegetables and flowers.
Exotic tropical fruits filled the air with an odd mixture of fragrant and pungent odors. During the early spring, the foul smell of durian could be both inviting to some, yet offensive to others. Strangely enough, it tasted good. Then there were areas for baked goods and pastries. The fresh smells of French bread and pastries were alluring. Vendors and shoppers bargained in good spirit, as though the act of purchasing was a team sport. People laughed out loud as vendors gathered their purchases and packaged them. In the far corner, there were souvenir kiosks selling artwork and gadgets. Then there were vendors selling handmade toys from China. There were even kiosks for clothing and shoes. Throughout Cho' Ben Thnh there was an orderly chaos, as people wandered back and forth by the hundreds, yet it was very authentic Vietnamese.
On those Sundays, my Mom took us there to eat bnh cuon (a thin rice cake dish) and to shop. She used to bargain with the vendors and made jokes with the owners who knew her. Her first phrase was always:
"Sao mac qu vay c?" Why so expensive?
To which a vendor would answer, "Re m Ngu'i Dep. C Su mua mot, ti tang mot nh". It's nothing, Pretty One. C Su, buy one get one free, okay?
The vendors knew my Mom by C Su, which was her ranking order in her family. In our Vietnamese tradition, the first name of the person is often reserved for close members or friends of the family only. Then my Mom would say, "C Hai lc no cung mua mot tnh hai phi khng?" You always sell one, but ring up two, C Hai?
The word "hai" means "two" in Vietnamese. Then they both laughed as my Mom gave the vendor the money in exchange for the merchandise. And just like that, my Mom shopped and had fun with the vendors of Cho' Ben Thnh.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Forgotten Generationby Vui Le Copyright © 2009 by Vui Le. Excerpted by permission.
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