"46 và 10" — Project Yellow Dress

Note from author: This was a reflection I had on my chest regarding the 46th anniversary of the Fall of Saigon, written originally in Vietnamese with the English translation below. Thank you to my dear friends, Andrew Peng & Alex Le, for helping with the English translation.

"46 và 10"

Đã thấm thoát 46 sáu năm kể từ ngày Sài Gòn thất thủ. Một giai đoạn đau thương cho dân tộc, một thời đen tối trong lịch sử. Mỗi lần đến dịp tháng tư đen, tôi được nghe những dòng nhạc lưu vong được phát trên đài phát thanh hàng ngày. Tuy tôi sinh ra tại hải ngoại và không sống qua thời chinh chiến, nhưng trong lòng có một nỗi buồn riêng khó tả được.

Hồi còn nhỏ, tôi được Ba Mẹ kể lại những câu chuyện của một thời thơ ấu, một thời thanh xuân khi chưa lìa quê hương. Thời ấy nghe rất thanh bình và vẽ lên một bức tranh thơ mộng của một thời vàng son miền nam. Và những câu chuyện đó, tôi vẫn mãi lưu trong đầu và lâu lâu hình dung thời đẹp ấy trong mơ tôi. Tôi cũng được kể lại những biến cố sau ngày mất nước và những kinh hoàng mà Ba Mẹ tôi phải trải qua. Ba tôi kể lại các chuyện một đời phi công trong Quân Lực Việt Nam Cộng Hòa đến những năm đi tù cải tạo Cộng Sản rồi cuộc vượt biên rùng rợn trên đại dương. Mẹ tôi kể lại những câu chuyện cuộc sống cực khổ những năm dưới chế độ Cộng Sản, Ông Ngoại tôi bị bắt vào tù rồi gia đình được sang Mỹ qua diện H.O. Mỗi năm đến tháng tư, tôi thường được nghe lại những câu chuyện đó. Mỗi khi ôn lại, Ba Mẹ tôi lại đau buồn và lòng tôi cũng có một nỗi buồn riêng. Quê hương, nơi họ sinh ra và lớn lên rồi phải lìa xa. Hơn 40 năm sống tại hải ngoại nỗi niềm viễn xứ đó tôi cũng được thấm thía vào tâm hồn.

Hồi còn bé, Ba Mẹ tôi hay dẫn tôi về thăm quê hương mỗi dịp hè để gần gũi với quê hương và gặp những người thân bên Việt Nam. Những kỹ niệm tuổi thơ ấy tôi không bao giờ quên được khi nhìn thấy một quê hương thật đẹp. Tôi cứ trông chờ những dịp nghỉ hè để được về một chuyến thế nhưng giờ đây mình không về được nữa. Mùa hè 2011 là lần cuối tôi được về. Năm nay tròn 10 năm chưa về. Lòng tôi có một nỗi buồn nhưng không thể bằng nỗi đau của Ba Mẹ tôi. Tuy nhiên giờ cũng thấu hiểu một phần nhỏ của nỗi đau của biết bao nhiêu người Việt tỵ nạn Cộng Sản phải bỏ nước ra đi và chưa một lần về cố hương. Giờ 21 tuổi, tôi được có cơ hội học hỏi và tìm tòi về những gì mà đất nước và đồng bào tôi phải trải qua và biết đâu là lịch sử thật đâu là sự dối trá.

Tôi mơ được một lần trở về để thắp một nén nhang tại mồ mả của Ông Bà Nội và Cô tôi và gặp lại những bà con thân yêu được ôm một lần. Tôi hay thường mơ được về lại quê tôi, thăm lại những con đường làng nhỏ hẹp, thăm lại những bờ ruộng và dòng sông của quê Nội tôi mà tôi đã từng qua, được đi xe đạp qua những con đê ngoài đồng ruộng xanh, nghe lại những tiếng gà trống kêu mỗi lúc bình minh, và được nghe những con dế hát lúc mặt trời xuống ngồi ăn cơm với những người thân yêu. Những giấc mơ đó không thể thực hiện được.

Buồn nhất khi nghe lại bài hát “Đường Về Quê Hương” của cố nhạc sĩ Lam Phương, có một câu mà làm tôi rơi lệ mỗi khi nghe bài hát ấy:

“Quê hương ơi, Việt Nam nước tôi, tôi mong ngày về từng phút người ơi”
“Quê hương yêu dấu với con đường thênh thang tưng bừng đón ta về”

Mỗi khi tôi nghe bài hát ấy tôi đều khóc vì đúng tâm trạng của tôi—nhớ quê hương. Nhìn lại các hình ảnh chụp những chuyến mình về Việt Nam tôi muốn về nhiều lắm. Ba Mẹ tôi đã hơn 40 năm xa xứ, năm nay, tôi tròn 10 năm chưa trở lại. Nhưng tôi vẫn mơ hẹn một ngày về.

- Nguyễn Ngọc Toàn

*My family on the day of departure in front of my grandmother’s house. From left: My father, brother, cousins, grandmother, me, and mother.*

“46 and 10”

It has been 46 years since the Fall of Saigon, a dark and painful chapter in Vietnamese history. Although I was born overseas in America and did not experience my people’s trauma, there is an indescribable sadness in my heart.

Growing up, my parents would share beautiful anecdotes of their childhood, peaceful descriptions of the pre-war times. Those stories still linger in my head, and from time to time, I try to recreate them in my mind. But between their recollections of their past, they would bring up the horrors they faced during and after the war. My father told tales of his time as a South Vietnamese Air Force lieutenant, his years in communist prison camps, and his horrific boat escape to Thailand across the sea. My mother became emotional recalling the many hardships living under the new communist regime, along with my grandfather’s long years in communist concentration camps, and her family’s immigration to America via the H.O. program. Each year, I am reminded of these narratives. Any time their accounts are brought up, I sense grief in my parents’ voices, and my heart too fills with anguish. The emotional trauma of leaving a homeland where they were born and raised for a quarter of their life is extremely agonizing, and I am now able to relate.

As a kid, my parents used to take my brother and I to Vietnam every summer to meet my relatives and show us the beauty of our motherland. I can never let go of those childhood memories, and I always look forward to going back. But now, 10 years later, I still have not returned and probably cannot do so any time soon. I have this sense of sorrow that is beyond words, but this is only a mere fraction of the agony of my parents. Still, I join the collective mourning of the many Vietnamese refugees exiled from their homeland. Now at age 21, I am able to learn about what my country and her people had to go through and distinguish between the truths and lies about her history.

I often envision my homecoming. I would visit my grandparents and aunt’s graves to light incense. I picture walking on the narrow village dirt paths again, visiting the river banks I used to swim, and biking through the vast green rice fields. I visualize waking up to the crows of roosters at sunrise, hearing the crickets sing at sunset, and having a home-cooked dinner with loved ones. Sadly, the yearning continues.

Now that Black April is here again, the local Vietnamese radio station plays diasporic songs that fill the house with somberness. When renowned songwriter Lam Phương’s song "Đường Về Quê Hương'' (The Road Back Home) comes on, tears stream down my face. The following lyrics tug at my heartstrings:

“Quê hương ơi, Việt Nam nước tôi, tôi mong ngày về từng phút người ơi”
“Quê hương yêu dấu với con đường thênh thang tưng bừng đón ta về”

—which roughly translates to “I have longed every minute for a chance to return. Oh my beautiful homeland, please wait for that day to welcome me home.” It really expresses my homesickness.

Looking back at the pictures of my trips to Vietnam, the nostalgia comes pouring. My parents have been in exile for over 40 years. This year, I have been away for 10. And I still dream for that day to return.

*Grandma and I on our morning walks down the village path.*