It's so hot, and the humidity is even worse. But he doesn't notice it. He can't notice it. He doesn't want to, but he has to leave his oldest daughter and son in the hands of his aunt. His aunt with the constant scowl on her face every time she looks at his kids, sneering because their family is so poor and taking every opportunity to ridicule them. His heart torn, but his mind pulled in so many places he has to struggle to keep his thoughts straight, he looks at his kids.
Their eyes are wide, faces dirty from the ever-present red clay that sticks to their little faces, their mouths clamped shut to hold back their fear and sadness. They are trying so hard to be brave, but they know exactly what is not being said: He is leaving, and may not come back.
"I promise I'll be back. Just stay here, mind your great-aunt, and I'll be back. I promise. Take care of each other. I PROMISE I WILL COME BACK."
As he leaves, it is his unreal sense of survival and purpose that forces him forward, away from his children. The promise that he will retrieve his wife and other four children, the youngest only a few months old.
It's chaos. Everywhere. No break from the rushing, running, pushing, and always, the frantic look that there is not enough time. Not enough time to get everything and get away. Get away to where? It doesn't matter. Just away from HERE. Away from the constant roar of the jets flying overhead, the hum of Agent Orange spraying, the sudden drop of all the leaves, leaving all the trees naked, stripping away the coverage and only break from the merciless beating from the relentless sun. Away from the whistle that very shortly precedes the drop of a bomb, one of which intentionally or not, hit their neighbor a few months ago and obliterated him and his home right before their eyes, scattering his body parts without regard. And above all, away from the Viet Cong who show up out of nowhere, and people disappear. Or worse, taken away, beaten, and returned unrecognizable.
He runs as fast as he can back to his home to get what he can. He already knows, even though nobody will admit it, that the South will fall to the North. And he knows that having served with the secret police, he will be targeted, and his family will suffer even more than they already have. There is no other choice. They must leave. He runs, dodging people, motorcycles, bicyclists, and falling limbs and leaves. He ignores the screams that pierce the already loud chaotic din, signaling another person has been shot and killed. He can't breathe, but he keeps running.
After what seems like years, not hours, he is reunited with his wife and all six of their children. But there is no time to celebrate a reunion. They scramble onto one of many boats, all taking on far more people than they should. There is no room for personal belongings, but it doesn't matter because there are no worldly goods to speak of. He gets all six kids on the boat, and holds on tightly to their birth certificates and slim photo album. Because no matter where they end up, he wants them to be able to see pictures of the rest of their family who may not make it out. They are so hurried, frantic, but there is no fear. There is no time for fear.
The ship pulls away, and for the first time, he can breathe. When was the last time he took a breath? He can't remember. It seems every time they turn, a disaster or bad fortune befalls them. A brother killed, another brother dead from illness, children born every two years, the constant threat of being ripped from his family. And never enough to eat. Never enough to take away the constant look of hunger in his wife and children's faces, whose faces are sunken, dark, but know better than to complain about what can't be fixed. Constantly worrying if a wayward bomb or bullet doesn't take them, or the nasty beast, Starvation, will.
He breathes. He takes a deep breath, and looks back at his homeland. Despite the constant defoliage, the land is green and still quite beautiful. He looks back, sees the smoke, hears the tat-tat-tat of bullets, the screams and yells from the scurrying people, and he takes it in. Takes it in with a combined sense of relief and sadness that it is gone. Not certain what will happen next, but he knows it will not be the same. He takes that luxurious deep breath, and suddenly, they are all rocked with a violent explosion that knocks that precious breath he had just taken, ringing his ears, burning his face, and searing his eyes. Instinctively, he blinks and looks back at his wife and counts his children, and for one glorious second, revels in the fact they are all there. They are alive. Even though he knows he put them on the boat, it is reassuring to know they are there and not on the hill that just shattered.
No time to breathe. The boat is pulling up next to another filled with supplies. He looks at his family, realizing nobody has eaten since when? It's impressive how far the survival instinct will take you over the threshold of gripping hunger, or perhaps it is because they have become so accustomed to the emptiness. But here's a chance to fix that, even if only momentarily.
"Stay here. I will get us some food. Remember I promised I'd come back? It's the same, but this time, I'll have food."
He leaps onto the supply boat, fighting others for the scant supplies, shoving others to get what his family needs to survive just another day. Holding what he can in his arms, he shoves his way through the immovable crowd to get back to the other boat and to his family. The boat lurches, and his heart lurches with it. He falls backward, and the fear and desperate sadness that grips him now is more real than anything he has ever felt. Worse than when he was three feet away from hundreds of Viet Cong marching by his hiding spot. Worse than finding his brother's mutilated and rotting body and bringing it home to bury. Worse than anything he ever imagined or dreamed.
When the boat lurched, it took his heart, mind and senses with it. He tried to get to the front, but could only see the matching fear in his wife's and children's eyes as the boat he was in pulled away. Away from his family he loves so much, for whom he lived, for whom he worked until he could not move. Without whom, there is no sense to try and survive. Somehow, when this boat pulls away and rips him from his family and his will to continue, it pulls away with tremendous speed and force. No chance to say goodbye. No chance to say the simple "I love you." Only the broken promise.
Night falls and brings with it a storm. There is no calm, only emptiness. He can only hope and pray his family is safe. From his perspective, this boat is floating aimlessly, and there is no telling what will happen when the sun rises. And it doesn't matter. His family is gone. He tries very hard to not remember, because it hurts too much. But the images of his youngest, a darling little girl who has not been touched by the hideous realities of life, is just learning to babble and smile, keeps shoving into his mind. His oldest, a daughter only 10 years of age, but already cooking and taking care of her younger siblings like a little mother hen. The other four, each so special, so unique, so loved by him. And now, they are gone.
He is only 35 years old.
This is my Dad's story. My Dad whom I feel I only really got to know in recent years. My father, whose story is not so different from many refugees who escaped that horrible day in April 1975, but unique because he's my Dad. When he told me this story, his usual stoic expression was broken by the memories of that horrible day that he thought he'd lost all of us. My father, who has suffered so much at the hands of so many people, but has always held so strongly to his faith and his love for his family. I grew up, thinking he was the biggest, strongest man on this earth. After I left home, I realized that at 5'2", he wasn't so tall, and having barely tipped the scales over 100 pounds, not so big. But he's my Dad. My Dad whose quiet courage, strength, resolve and fierce love for his family will never be matched. In my heart and mind, he is the biggest, strongest and most admirable man that will ever live.
