Professional Documents
Culture Documents
I dedicate this book to my father, the late Dean Wilson, who introduced me to Haiku and the Japanese culture. I could not have written this book without his influence on my life. A special thanks to Dick and Eileen Hastings, who have encouraged me through the years; Michael Rehling who set up a webpage to showcase and promote my work; to Kathy Lippard Cobb, Jeanie Wilson, and Gail Goto, who have been there for me on-line and off-line; to Susumu Takiguchi and Debi Bender for believing in me; and to my friends and supporters in the World Haiku Club, the old Shiki Forum, Bashos Beatniks, Cherry Poetry Club, Haikuhut.net, and Simply Haiku.
FOREWORD
By Susumu Takiguchi Chairman, The World Haiku Club
Men kill. That much we are the same as animals. Men kill legally sometimes. Here, we become slightly different. Legalised or lawful killing. What a horrific concept this is! Should it really be allowed? What does it mean anyway not in a superficial sense but in a fundamental sense? Capital punishment, legal killing by the police, killing in self-defence and of course killing in wars. Between the lawful killing and unlawful killing there is an endlessly murky world where all ethical, legal and otherwise reasons or justification become suspect. So much so that one wonders if all wars are not suspect indeed. The number of causes, conditions and circumstances of war, especially in modern time, is infinite. No single or simple answer can explain this most human of all human activities. One kills and dies in defence of the country in the belief that its government is doing the right and just thing. What if that government betrays one? What if that government fails itself and fails the people it is supposed to serve? The war in Iraq is a case in point. Had lessons not been learnt from the Vietnamese war? No textbook of war or armchair generals can teach you more about war than being sent to the battlefield and going through action there. Being sent to the Vietnamese war must have been such a learning experience for the Americans. Robert Wilson, the author of the extraordinary tale and poetry contained in this volume, was one of many such young Americans who were wrenched from their happy-go-lucky teenage life, from the arms of their girlfriends, from classrooms and college libraries, from apprenticeship in a factory or from conventional escalators which would have led them to higher education, jobs or marriage. They were wrenched from ordinariness, peace and reasonable expectations from life this minute, and the next minute thrown into an unknown world where everything they knew was turned upside down. Wilson was sent to Vietnam in 1968 as a seaman. His team was stationed on a river repair boat barge in Dong Tam in the Mekong delta. They were a top-secret facility with a civilian engineer on board who designed weapons for use on patrol boats, including flamethrowers. Thus began his long story of very personal experience of war and a hazardous road along which he turned into an anti-war campaigner, not merely in the political sense but also and more importantly in what I call the humanist sense. For the former he took to the street. For the latter he has taken up a pen and produced an astonishing series of short writings with a piece of poem. This is normally called haibun a term which I wish to avoid as both Wilsons prose and poem go much deeper than the light-hearted and comical nature inherent to haibun
and therefore using such a term seems to me to be inappropriate. Rather, I like to think that Wilson has created a new form and genre of literature, whose name has not yet been coined. That such a creation as this has occurred may well be coincidental. I have observed Wilsons progress as a haiku poet closely for some time now. To me, the creation does not seem primarily to be the result of his haiku writing. It is a creation which may indeed have been instigated by haiku but which in fact has sprung from much deeper fountain of Wilsons inner souls and spiritual and psychological recesses where the memories of the war, thoughts and doubts about it and all other perceptions and sensibilities are stored. When such thoughts and feelings came pouring out, however, Wilson was helped by the skills and technique of haiku and haibun in putting them in a succinct, terse and chillingly objective form. So it was that a series of writings emerged, the like of which had never been seen before. People soon realised that they were confronted with a new way of looking at something they thought they knew. Wilson is a modest man. To read his Vietnam Ruminations was like thumbing through a diary of a serving soldier. The only difference is that it had the power to get the reader instantly captivated and glued to whatever page he or she happened to open. A power of the pen of a modest man, scratching the paper with honest observation, simple questions, unadulterated facts, non-falsified emotions and childlike criticism without embellishment or attempts to sound clever. In this regard, Vietnam Ruminations has something in common with haiku. The strength and quality of this work lie significantly in the very fact that Wilson did not try to use it as a platform for his political campaign or for moral crusade but maintained his self-discipline to restrict it strictly within the realm of art and literature. In other words, it is a work of art and not a cheap political tool or an instrument of self-aggrandisement. There is no need for me to take the reader through each one of the episodes of the tale told by Wilson about the Vietnamese war by my comments. Each one is not only selfevident needing no explanation but also may well be spoiled by such comments in terms of the pleasure the reader deserves to relish. Wilson was in the war in Vietnam during the TET offensive when the North Vietnamese Army asserted themselves militarily and turned the tide of the War, which was indeed the beginning of the end for the American presence. They were rocketed and mortared 6 to 7 times per night. And that was only a beginning. The enemy attacked when they least expected. Everything he wrote about in this series is something he either experienced himself or heard about while stationed in Vietnam. It was an experience that changed his perspective on life. He was only 18 when he was sent there, fresh out of high school. It was for him a passage into manhood. Wilson also developed a love for the Vietnamese people and culture while stationed there. These things are evident in and between the lines of his prose and poems.
Upon his discharge after returning to the U.S., Wilson organized and led all of the anti-war demonstrations in President Richard Nixons hometown and its surrounding regions. He was sent to a war without knowing either its meaning or what really would happen in it. Having survived as a cannon fodder, he came out of the war none the wiser but returned home only to be betrayed by a government of the country for which he chose to give his life. No returning hero, nor welling up of a sense of pride in having served the country. It was a disastrous and wrong war which shook the foundation of American way of life and that of the world. It was also a war which engendered genuine national doubt, which is a pre-requisite for a sane, mature and civilised society. The only thing he had left with of the war was his intense experiences and vivid memories of it in the minutest detail. In his words, I went to Vietnam for the war and returned opposed to the war. I am sure that his political campaign was worthy and effective. However, I am even more convinced that Vietnam Ruminations will move millions of hearts in the entire world, precisely because it is not a political tool but a profound literary work. It must now be evident that I have so far not quoted anything from Vietnam Ruminations nor given my views on any of his poems. I shall not do so at all, which is quite unusual for a foreword of this kind. This is because Vietnam Ruminations is unusual. Imagine an excellent exhibition of Rembrandt or Monet. I hate people using one of these hired tape recorders and listen to its account right from the start. These paintings do not, and should not, need such a machine, at least till after one has first seen the exhibition. I also hate people snapping busily in Rome or Marrakech or Kyoto without seeing anything with their naked eyes. In fact, I do not really know what I am doing here as Vietnam Ruminations does not need any foreword or afterword or anything else. Vietnam Ruminations should be read without any such unnecessary bits and pieces. One does not even need to know anything about haiku or haibun to appreciate Vietnam Ruminations. Such is the extraordinary thing Wilson has created! I have mentioned above that I object to using the word haibun to describe Vietnam Ruminations as I fear it would detract peoples attention from the very essence of the book. Some new word is needed to describe it accurately without corrupting its poetic beauty and the strength of its realism. For want of a better word, perhaps the very word Wilson used, ruminations, would be the best. Basho talked about fuga no makoto (poetic truth, sincerity and honesty). Central to Vietnam Ruminations are truths also. These truths turned inside Wilsons mind and heart into his firm conviction. Truths are one of the most difficult subjects for us mortals, perhaps the most difficult. Whatever truths may be, I have no doubt that Wilson has reached, or at least touched, them in Vietnam Ruminations. If haiku has helped him to do it, it has done something which it has never done in this way before and in this sense it is a truly remarkable and wonderful thing indeed.
transplanting new rice before the cricket sleeps this humid morning
I had it good compared to the Vietnamese working in the rice paddies. I got up in the morning, put on a uniform laundered and pressed by a Vietnamese laundrywoman, and walked with my shipmates to the chowhall on base to eat an all-you-can-eat breakfast featuring a choice of entrees, fresh fruit, and pastries. After breakfast, we returned to the YRBM-17, where we did our regularly assigned chores, complete with breaks, and an ample supply of soda pop. The Vietnamese villagers we were there to protect, didnt have it so good. For most, the day started before sunrise. Breakfast was scant, if they had any at all. They worked long hours under a scorching sun. The humidity was 100%. Breaks were nonexistent. They relieved themselves where they worked. Lunch was a bowl of rice with, possibly, a piece of fruit, or a duck egg. The water they drank was polluted, drawn from the Mytho River. Their workday ended at sundown. Some went home to their families. Others fought with the Viet Cong. My buddies and I partied with one another when we didnt have guard duty. We knew so little about our hosts...how they lived, how they thought, and what they believed. Most werent there because they cared about the Vietnamese. Many servicemen called the Vietnamese, Gooks...a racially derogatory term. Most served there either because they had no choice or because they felt duty bound to oppose communism. It wasnt for a love of the country or its people.
does she dream, this girl picking rice before the sun wakes up?
Water buffalos were the tractors of South Vietnam. Only the well off could afford to buy one. Those who couldn't, plowed the fields with their backs... Women carrying loads on their backs no American woman would ever agree to carry. They had no choice. It was work in the fields or starve to death. People starving to death in the villages and cities of Vietnam were an everyday occurrence.
Lonely guard, even the ducks avoid you this overcast morning
The villages between our Base in Dong Tam and the city of MyTho were infested with Viet Cong soldiers. The war in the Mekong Delta was primarily fought at night. During the day, the Viet Cong and the villagers blended in. People worked. The village paths were deserted with the exception of small children playing and ducks quacking. Shadows from the trees and tropical plants danced playfully. Viet Cong soldiers worked alongside the other villagers or prepared for the night in the confines of thatched roof homes and underground bunkers. The presence of the South Vietnamese Army was surprisingly scarce. Ironically, at the entrance to every village, there would be a lone guard, holding an automatic rifle, dressed in a freshly starched uniform. And for what? Everyone was at work. Could he defend the village against a detachment of the Viet Cong?
End of Tet the marks on her back, a letter I'd rather not read.
At the conclusion of the Tet Offensive in 1968, a girl who worked as a laundrywoman on our base returned after a three week absence. Her back was covered with hideous burns. Her family had been tortured and murdered. It was a reprisal by the Viet Cong for her working on our base. She, of course, was an innocent. She worked for us to help support her economically strapped family. Her alliance was to her family, not to a political belief. Like many living in the rural provinces of Vietnam, she wanted to live a simple life free from another's tyranny.
Dali painted me into someone else's dream that Spring and walked away
The Spanish Surrealist, Salvadore Dali, is noted for his wild dreamlike paintings that flirt with madness. Nothing in his paintings are like they seem. On closer look, the viewer sees pictures within pictures, some of them shocking. I was not prepared for what I experienced in Vietnam as a teenager just out of high school. I had no idea what the Vietnamese people believed or how they thought. My only realm of experience was my own from back home. As servicemen, we were taught nothing about the Vietnamese. In high school, we learned nothing about their history. Most of us originally didn't come to Vietnam to help the Vietnamese people. We knew nothing about them. We came because we were told that communism was knocking at our door and had to be stopped to avoid a domino effect. I went, I saw, and got my mind blown.
eerie spring night, mortars walking across the bay -footsteps of Godzilla?
For three weeks straight, during the TET Offensive in 1968, my base was hit by mortars six or seven times a night. The mortars were a psychological tool used by the Viet Cong to deprive us of sleep and to scare us. They never hit anything. They hurled one mortar after another into the narrow bay that separated the Navy from the Army side of our base in Dong Tam. The sound of the mortars reminded me of the footsteps of Godzilla as he walked through Tokyo on a rampage in the original Godzilla movie I saw as a kid. It was eerie. A few weeks prior, a team of naval and army engineers hired Vietnamese citizens from a nearby village to help with a field survey of the base. No wonder the mortars walked in a straight line across the bay inching closer and closer to our living quarters and work spaces with perfect precision. We were overjoyed when the mortar attacks stopped three weeks later. The lack of hitting a target by the Viet Cong became a joke. We thought they were blind as bats. We were sure they'd never hit us. Later that year, when we least expected it, they hit again; this time with deadly accuracy, hitting buildings, ships, and friends.
A sampan chugging across a brown water river fueled by a diesel engine was a common sight. Taxis, they ferried people and cargo from one village to another. Passengers sat beside stacked wooden crates laden with produce and poultry. The Viet Cong used the space below the cargo to smuggle in hand grenades, ammunition, mortars, and guns.
Saffron robed monks sweep me through the temple this humid morning
I asked a Vietnamese woman who worked on our base if she could arrange a visit for me to the local Buddhist temple. She smiled and told me she would talk to one of the monks. She returned the next day and told me the monk said it would be dangerous for me to visit the temple. What the monk meant by that I will never know. I told her to tell the monk that I wanted to visit the temple anyway; that I was interested in the Buddhist religion and wanted to learn more. She related that to the monk who reluctantly agreed to give me a quick tour of the temple. He had a nervous look on his face when he brought me inside. It was a dimly lit temple, the light emanating from flickering candles and burning joss sticks. At the altar were three giant golden Buddhas. The Buddha of the past. The Buddha of the present. The Buddha of the future. It was an otherworldly sight. The monk gave me a joss stick and taught me how to bow and pray to the three Buddhas.
The trees had eyes monkeys long ago eaten summer quiet!
One afternoon, two weeks after I arrived at my duty station in Dong Tam, I was riding from Mytho, a nearby port city, to our base, in the back of a military truck. The guys and I were laughing and telling jokes, oblivious to any danger. All of us newbies to Vietnam. Suddenly, out of nowhere, we heard a crack! A sniper was shooting at us from a tree. The truck screeched to a halt. Instinctively, we jumped out, automatic rifles in hand, and took cover. Trees are everywhere in the jungle. It was impossible to know which tree the sniper was in or from what direction he'd been shooting. Or how far the sniper was from our position. We were sitting ducks. From that moment on, the war became real. We indiscriminately shot at the tops of trees in the horizon. Fortunately for us, the sniper didn't return fire. Hello, Vietnam!
Harvesting rice under the hot Asian sun knowing where to step.
People stooping to plant and pick rice in the rice paddies under the hot Vietnamese sun was a daily ritual. Backbreaking work for little or no pay. The Viet Cong planted boobytraps in the rice fields to maim and kill U.S. and South Vietnamese foot patrols.
She was thirteen no need for a prom dress in the rice field!
As soon has a child was able, she went to work. That was a given. Poverty reigned in the villages. Going to school was a luxury few could afford. One was a liability or an asset. A child didn't question her parents. Rebellion brought dishonor to the family. She worked, she rested, she worked again. No time clocks to punch, No eight hour work days. No child labor laws. The clothing on her back, the rice in her bowl, the knowledge that she was helping her family, these were her rewards.
The typhoon! Even the enemy stays inside when trees bow to stone
Typhoon storms are horrendous winds laden with rain. Every year, those living in Vietnam and Southeast Asia experience this phenomenon. I was once asked to stand guard duty on top of a three story building in Saigon. The wind was blowing at 75 plus miles per hour and the rain was coming down in buckets. I felt stupid. Here I was standing guard on top of this building in the worst of weather and the enemy was probably indoors laughing at our stupidity.
you are your own shadow this autumn noon at river's edge
Every day, we passed by the same thatched roof home nested under a cluster of trees by the water's edge, on our way to the main river. We called this tributary, Route 66. It was a Viet Cong hotbed under the cover of night, the scene of many firefights between the Cong and river patrol boats. During the day, it was a picture postcard Eden. Hard to imagine danger lurking from those shores. The same woman, always without a hat, and clad in black pajamas, stood outside the home's entrance like clockwork whenever we passed by. The home, like all of the homes in the Delta, had no electricity. She had walked out of the darkness wearing black clothing Was she a lookout for the Viet Cong? Or just a curious woman?
The bright red sunset a none too subtle mirror; spring ploughs set aside.
The sunsets in South Vietnam were second to none visually. From one end of the horizon to the other, the sky was a bright red. It made me think of the blood that was spilled by everyone involved in the war. Vietnam was a killing field. At nightfall, plows were replaced with rifles, hand grenades, and mortars. A war with no winners. Broken bodies, broken homes, shattered dreams.
The dusty ground and the river look the same this afternoon.
The base I was stationed on in the Mekong Delta was built on what was once a rice field. To make the land level, army engineers and Vietnamese laborers filled in the area with dirt. Lacking imagination, ground cover wasn't planted. The base was a dirty island in the middle of a lush, green jungle. The eyesore of eyesores. Needless to say, the ground was hard as a rock during the dry season. It was a different story during the Monsoon season when torrential rains inundated the ground. Jeeps and heavy equipment sunk in minutes. The roads were a joke. The dirty brown Mytho River and banks of the Base were indistinguishable at times. I wonder if the base was returned to its natural state after the war ended.
After work she walks into the jungle with a different hat.
There was an old saying on Base: "They're our friends during the day and our enemies at night." Most of the women who worked on our base were single females in their early to late twenties. The majority washed and ironed our clothing. The pay wasn't good but it was a step up from working in the rice fields. Most were looked upon as potential sex objects by young servicemen fresh out of high school locker rooms. More than once I heard guys proposition them, using unsavory language. Some pinched their butts and grab their breasts. This was degrading for the women and a total lack of respect. They weren't whores. They weren't enamored with American servicemen. They had families to feed. The sexual harassment was epidemic. Base commanders looked the other way. And when one of the woman frowned and called her harasser a pig, the guys would laugh and make fun of her. These women put up with the harassment because they desperately needed the money they earned from their jobs. No wonder some of them were the enemy at night. For them, we were a meal ticket. Our politics, unimportant. Americans in their eyes were subhumans with no respect for the Vietnamese people and their culture.
I wish they were gnats, those things whizzing past me slapping brown water.
One can never relax in a war zone. The element of surprise is the enemy's trump card. I'll never forget the day I was sailing in a small one man sailboat in the tiny bay that separated the Navy side of the base with the Army's in Dong Tam. It was a hot Saturday afternoon in the height of summer. Their was no wind. Sail down, I was laying shirtless, looking up at the cloudless sky, daydreaming about home... when, all of a sudden, silent poofs of air whizzed past me, some of them slapping the water beside the tiny craft. It didn't take a scholar to know what was happening. Enemy fire! A sitting duck, taking cover was not an option. I unhooked the mast, secured the sail, and paddled like a mad man towards the safety of my ship, hoping none of the bullets had my name on them.
Shortened day a monk steps into the darkness without his robe.
It was not uncommon to see saffron robed Buddhist monks wandering through villages between our base and Mytho, the nearest large city. They never spoke. They never smiled. They were either alone or with other monks. The area was infested with Viet Cong soldiers. The villagers of the Mekong Delta wore two hats...one to keep the sun off of their heads during the day and another to make them invisible in the inky black darkness that never spoke. The monks were an enigma. Religion of any kind is not tolerated by Communists. Not today and not yesterday. The only other religious people I saw were a couple of Vietnamese Catholic nuns who operated an orphanage in Bien Duc, a village halfway between Mytho and our base in Dong Tam. They too were an enigma. Were they who they said they were? What about the monks? I remember the time a Buddhist monk told me it would be dangerous for me to visit a temple in Mytho. Why? So many whys.......If only I could ask the darkness.
This resort called Hell -Death stood before me with an outstretched hand
We regularly went on runs to the garbage dump a few miles outside the Base gate. It was a public dump, although the public seldom used it. Vietnamese villagers are a resourceful people. They wasted nothing. They found uses for almost anything. The poorest villagers watched as we unloaded our garbage. Torn or stained clothing, old magazines, half eaten food, cardboard boxes, broken furniture, metal containers, used paper. Things we had no more use for. Villagers combed through our garbage, looking for items to salvage and recycle. It was a dusty, smelly, fly ridden place. A hellish oasis in the middle of a tropical paradise. One hot, humid summer morning stands out. My shipmates and I had just dumped the garbage from the day's duty assignment. I pulled out a candy bar pirated from a box of sea rations (canned and freeze dried food used by those on the patrol boats during river duty). It tasted lousy. I tossed the remainder of the candy bar on the dusty ground and half buried it with my foot. The moment I pulled my foot away, a skeletal man dove to the ground and stuffed the candy bar, dust and all, into his mouth. He swallowed it whole. Coming from America, I had never seen starvation before. It was an eye opening experience for me. I am still haunted by that moment.
our shadows wore different hats the summer you called winter
The Vietnamese are a complex people with a richly diverse culture. The average American soldier in the late 1960's, knew little or nothing about them. Most of us fought in the war because we were drafted, sought out adventure, or felt it our duty to rid the world of Communism. The majority of us couldn't point out Vietnam on a world map let alone tell you about its people. We were sent to Vietnam to protect American economic interests like Firestone Rubber, Shell Oil, and other U.S. entities. We were taught nothing about the country we were supposed to protect in regards to its history and culture. Many servicemen called the Vietnamese people, Gooks, which is a derogatory name similar in nature to Nigger or Wop. What does that tell you? Our attitude and disrespect of the Vietnamese culture worked against us as time wore on. So did our lack of a clear vision. We fought in an unpopular, politically confusing war. A war orchestrated by politicians whose sons did not participate. The real Vietnam War was a war few of us experienced or knew about. It was the ideological war fought away from our bases in the homes and backstreets of this complex nation. It is a war still being fought today.
The dragon never slumbers. He has been awake for over a thousand years, eating soldiers and civilians alike. In his wake, a trail of bones.. If only they could speak.
wading through shadows past thatched roof homes, soldiers clutching guns
Villages in the Mekong Delta region of Vietnam are built in naturally shady areas. This is out of necessity due to the extreme heat and humidity. Banana and palm trees are everywhere. I found the villages to be extremely beautiful and surprisingly cool. Most of the homes were look-alike thatched roof houses with dirt floors, no plumbing, no electricity, and no windows. The villagers lived simply, having little or no money. They learned to make do with what they had and turned recycling into an art form. This, of course, is a far cry from the neighborhood I grew up in as a young man. Compared to the villagers homes, I lived in a castle. Their homes, however, were comfortable, cool inside, and kept neat. The big leaves from the banana trees and the fronds from the palm trees provided ample shade. I loved visiting Bien Duc, a small village between my base in Dong Tam and the city of Mytho. Many times I rode on the back of an Army truck and jumped off as it drove through the village. The village was off limits to American servicemen. Viet Cong were known to live in the area. I didnt take the warning seriously and willfully disobeyed it. I and a couple of buddies would walk down the shady dirt path that led to the village from the road. Wed take photographs, talk with South Vietnamese soldiers, and visit with the villagers in their homes, shops, and schools. The people of Bien Duc were friendly to us and we were friendly to them. To me, the village was a refuge from the madness of war. I fell in love with its inhabitants. They were some of the nicest people I have ever met. Unfortunately, our visits there came to an abrupt halt when a noncommissioned officer spotted us eating at a roadside cafe, commanded us to get into his Jeep, and took us before the Commanding Officer.
your smile! the gift you gave me that winter day, still lingers
During my visits to Ben Duc, a tiny village between Dong Tam and Mytho, I made friends with a 16 year old boy, three years my junior. I have a photograph of him standing beside his bicycle smiling for the camera. He wore black shorts and a white dress shirt that day. The same outfit he wore everyday. He loved Americans and told me it was his dream to some day live in the United States. He was one of the lucky ones. His father owned a small brewery, assuring the family of a better than average income. The boy didnt have to labor in the rice paddies. He went to a private school. His hands were uncalloused.. He lived in a home with electricity and a tiled floor. And he owned his own bicycle. I remember one afternoon, asking him if he had ever slept with a woman? Blushing, he said, No. I took him to a brothel in Mytho and asked a prostitute to sleep with him. She turned up her lip and grimaced, saying she only slept with American soldiers. The thought of sleeping with a Vietnamese teenager disgusted her. The majority of prostitutes in South Vietnam slept with American soldiers to feed their families. They did it out of necessity. Maybe the thought of sleeping with my Vietnamese teenage friend disgusted her because the reality of it was too close to home. My friends smile still visits me when I think about my stay in South Vietnam. He lived in the middle of a war zone, an area infested by the Communist Viet Cong. People he knew were slaughtered and maimed. His future, uncertain. And yet, he smiled. I never saw him without a smile. He taught me the meaning of hope. Who knows, maybe he made it to the United States. I hope so.
summer breeze, a letter from home paints over the now with some day
Most of us were away from our families for the first time. We were separated from our families and the neighborhoods we grew up in. We were stationed in a country on the other side of the world with a culture completely foreign to our way of seeing life. And, of course, there was the War. There are no certainties in war. It is a crap shoot. Maybe youll make it home. Maybe you wont. This reality never strays far from a soldiers mind. We were isolated from our families, our culture, and the world as we knew it. I was 18 years old and newly graduated from high school. I never knew how much I loved my family until I was away from them living in a war zone. Suddenly, they were the most valuable thing in my life. I lived and died for letters and packages from home. In my spare time, Id daydream about my family and neighborhood friends. Thinking about them was what gave me hope and kept me going. That some day. Needless to say, mail call was a major event.
hat and beard shaped the same. one up, one down
Retirement is nonexistent in Vietnam. It is one of the poorest nations on earth. Social security and pension checks dont exist. One works until he can no longer work. Every member of the family pitches in. The work ethic is paramount to survival. In America, we have it made. Those 55 and older qualify for senior citizen discounts. Most retire when they are 65 or younger. A time to rest and play. In the South Vietnamese countryside, it was wasnt uncommon to see leather skinned old men with a flowing white beards laboring alongside younger men and women. They worked hard with a natural rhythm sown by experience and acceptance of their lot in life. I admired them. Sitting in front of a television set in their twilight years courting dementia is not part of their mindset. They are the village elders. The people others look to for advice and counsel. Whenever I walked past or met a Vietnamese man or woman older than myself, I bowed my head, to show my respect. This is the Southeast Asian way. Whenever I could, I visited villages for no other reason than to be amongst the people. To learn from them, to see life through their eyes. Life is a school. For a season, they became my teachers. Especially the elderly.
this lanternless night, bamboo stakes, dipped in excrement, wait for brown boots
Boobytraps killed and maimed thousands of American servicemen during the Vietnam War. The Viet Cong had limited supplies and money. One thing they didn't lack in, however, was ingenuity. They were able to fashion boobytraps out of almost anything. One of the most lethal of their boobytraps was the punji stake. Concealed underwater in rice paddies and beneath jungle foliage, they were crudely made bamboo stakes dipped in animal excrement. When an unsuspecting soldier stepped on one, the razor sharp point of the bamboo stake would pierce his foot. The animal excrement guaranteed immediate infection. Soldiers on patrol in the jungle were far from hospitals and infirmaries. Especially those deep in enemy territory, experiencing day to day combat. If improperly treated, gangegreen would set in, eventually necessitating the removal of the infected soldier's foot or leg. The pain from the wounds were excruciating. They were the lucky ones. When fired at by the enemy in a boobytrapped rice paddy, soldiers instinctively dove for cover. Some of them landed on punji stakes, ripping open their stomachs, chests, or bowels. Death soon followed.
Nothing changes a young teenager quicker than when he is forced to kill another human being. Young boys were drafted into the Vietnam War right after graduation from high school. At eighteen, their lives had centered around going to school, playing sports, courting girls, helping out at home, and other youthful pursuits. Overnight, they were transported across the ocean to a foreign land where they were armed with automatic rifles (machine guns) and told to shoot the enemy if attacked. I had a friend who was forced to shoot a nine year old girl who charged at him with a hand grenade. He told me it was the most horrible thing he ever had to do, killing a little child. But as he told me, What else could I do? It was kill or be killed. The taking of a human life changes a person forever. Gone is the innocence of youth, the naivete of adolescence. Some soldiers had to kill others on a daily basis, witnessing some of the most gruesome sights imaginable. Psychologically, of course, it took its toll. Some of my friends had glazed over eyes. Others drunk or drugged themselves to oblivion on a nightly basis. Others I know are plagued even today by horrendous dreams of what they experienced and saw during their stay in South Vietnam. The sad thing is, when we returned stateside, after completing our tour of duty, few of us received counseling. After discharge, we were sent back into the civilian world, emotionally dysfunctional. Drug addiction, alcoholism, and post traumatic syndrome laid waste to many of my fellow servicemen. I too, went through hell and back. It was only through years of counseling and spiritual journeying that I was able to rise up from the chasm of self destruction and reoccurring spectres to a headspace today that gives me peace of mind and inner happiness.
summer has ended -what are they to you, these people in the dragons belly?
More than once, I was invited to have supper with a South Vietnamese family. The families I dined with were not rich. Most barely eked out a living. The meals they served my friends and I, however, were second to none, usually consisting of rice, shrimp, a kale -like vegetable, and dessert. The meals were delicious and abundant. Better than the food, however, was the hospitality. Our hosts treated us like visiting royalty, insisting we eat more, giving us the best seats, continually asking us if we wanted refills for our sodas. The South Vietnamese people are some of the nicest, most considerate people on this planet. The Viet Cong were everywhere, especially in the Mekong Delta region where I was stationed. Those who offered hospitality to American servicemen, paid a high price for their generosity. Sooner or later, they would be tortured, killed, or forced to serve as spies by the VC. The Communists were merciless with those who sympathized with the American war effort. I have seen their handiwork first hand. Backs with burn marks and horrible bruises. Backs that had been brutally beat. And that wasnt the worst. Our guests gave to us and asked for nothing in return. Never once did they pump us for information. They gave because that was who they were...generous, giving people. We, supposedly, were in South Vietnam to help and protect the people from the evils of Communism. Our presence in the war gave many a false hope. A hope for a day when they too could be free from war and poverty. The United States left Vietnam in 1975, withdrawing from a war that claimed an excessive amount of human lives. The Republic of South Vietnams government was toppled instantaneously by the North Vietnamese armed forces. What happened next to those who helped the American war effort was not a pretty scene. Thousands were killed. Thousands were tortured. Others were forced to attend reeducation camps. A Vietnamese friend of mine who later managed to escape from Vietnam as a boat person with his extended family, told me of former South Vietnamese policemen who were tied spread eagle in his villages square and hideously tortured as an example for all to see. Do we, who served in the Vietnam War, ever think about our hosts today? Are we concerned about the welfare of the Vietnamese people we were formerly charged to protect?
where are you, papa? you didnt show me how to plow the field
Children lost their fathers during the Vietnam War. Some lost their mothers. On both sides. Lessons untaught. Examples unlearned. Lives scarred by anger, loneliness, and the absence of a primary role model. One day, a parent is there. The next day, he or she is not. War shows no mercy, no preference. People die. Families are torn apart. We must not forget this. I long for a day, idealistic me, when war is no longer a reality. I saw firsthand, the ravages of war. Soldiers and civilians were shot, maimed, and psychologically scarred for life. Over a million lives needlessly erased from this earth. And for what? Oil? Tungsten? Rubber? Power? Where were the politicians sons and daughters during the war?
autumn evening now the space between each shell a deafening quiet
For three weeks straight, during the TET Offensive in 1968, the Viet Cong lobbed one mortar after another onto our Base in Dong Tam. The attacks occurred late at night and early in the morning. Needless to say, sleep wasnt something we got a lot of. The enemy attacked five to seven times an evening. Erratically timed, we never knew when to expect an attack. We just knew that they would come. When the mortars came, they came with a vengeance. We were sitting ducks. There was no way of anticipating where they would land. It was a dice game with no winners. It was the deafening quiet between each mortar that I remember the most. I couldnt relax. I couldnt do anything but hope and pray that my name wasnt on one of the incoming shells. Wideeyed like a deer staring at a cars headlights, Id stare out at the bay and wait. Every night. Every morning. Death taunted us. Our imaginations, larger than life. We were the hunted, unable to see the hunter. Base morale sunk to an all time low. We grew tired, antsy, unsure of our futures. Bridges to all roads leading to our Base were wiped out. Mail could not be delivered. We were cut off from our families, our linkline to sanity. Supplies didnt get to us. Our dreams put on hold.
louder than the parrot the soldier in the field drinking beer
Americans by nature are a loud lot. In comparison, the Vietnamese people are softspoken and rarely raise their voice. It is considered rude to yell or speak loudly. This is due in part to the Buddhist influence. Many times I walked through villages in the Mekong Delta. Always it was a peaceful experience. No loud music, no screaming kids, no blaring television sets; the air permeated with the soft whisper of woman doing chores, children playing, animals grazing, and the fluttering of banana leaves. A lot of soldiers drank heavily. This is not uncommon in a war zone. Unfortunately, the use of alcohol erases all inhibitions. This made for loud voices, aggressive behavior, and a lack of moral restraint. Several of my buddies drank themselves drunk on weekend leave. Their voices pierced the quiet countryside; their frustration, fear, and prejudices magnified tenfold. They became obnoxious, disrespectful, and grabbed at passing women with sexual abandon, oblivious to their complaints. They were armed, the women were not. The only police in the village, South Vietnamese Army guards who didnt want to make waves. Unrestrained, the drunken soldiers did what they pleased.
Dogs are eaten in Vietnam. In America, where dogs are revered as pets, the practice is repulsive. They are considered members of the family. Almost human. Vietnam, on the other hand, is an extremely poor country. Poverty is rampant. Starvation a stark reality. Having a pet dog is inconceivable. To the Vietnamese, dogs are a source of meat, nothing more. The meat is nutritious, just as safe to eat as beef or pork. Once, during shore leave, I ate what I thought was a water buffalo sandwich in a riverfront cafe in Mytho, a small city in the Mekong Delta, not far from our base. I told the waitress, This is good water buffalo. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, That not water buffalo, GI. Too expensive. That dog.
Planting and picking rice under the hot sun is back breaking labor. The days are long. The nights, too short. After a while, a laborers skin takes on the appearance of dark brown leather. The weather during harvest time is well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The humidity, one hundred percent. Works starts early in the morning before dawn and isnt regulated by a time clock or child labor laws. It is a matter of necessity. Babies born, dreams doused, lives expired...the rice field is a jealous lover. When we were not on the front line or pulling guard duty, American servicemen worked an eight hour day. We took frequent breaks and guzzled soda pop. After work, we showered, ate dinner, and socialized until lights out, our laundry and ironing done by cleaning women.
A new guy came aboard the YRBM-17, the river repair boat barge I was stationed on in Dong Tam. He had a far off look in his eyes and a countenance that said hed been to Hell and back. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Like most of us, he was barely out of high school, but you wouldnt know it. A frown was permanently etched into his face, he socialized with no one during off duty hours, and rarely spoke. When he did, it was in a low growl. Chronologically a teenager, he was an old man, a spent shell void of life, hope, and joy. It was a sad sight, something none of us could relate to. It didnt take a psychologist to figure out that our new shipmate was a time bomb waiting. to explode. He was only with us a month and then reassigned. We never saw nor heard from him again. I asked him before he left what was bothering him. He told me he and some shipmates were walking through a village a few months prior when a nine year old Vietnamese girl charged at them with a live grenade. It was kill or be killed. He shot her dead with his M-16 automatic rifle, an event that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
we wore the wrong hat that summer... even the oxen smiled
Every day in the former republic of South Vietnam felt like summer. There were times when it reached 127 degrees farenheit. The humidity in the Mekong Delta region was 100%. I remember stepping off of the airliner in Saigon when I began my tour of duty. It was like walking into a giant sauna. Jungle fatigues with steel toe combat boots and metal helmets were standard issue for servicemen stationed in South Vietnam during the War. it was essential garb, but uncomfortable to wear in the sweltering weather. The majority of the citizenry, of course, wore loose fitting silk pajamas, sandals, and hats to shield their heads from the sun. We were not accustomed to the weather. Our clothing was drenched. We drank water, soda, or beer, every hour on the hour, accompanied by salt tablets. Another reminder that we were strangers in a strange land.
I couldnt relax when I was in the Republic of South Vietnam. Even when I was off duty in a so-called safe town. No serviceman could. There was a saying regarding the Vietnamese: Friends during the day, enemies at night. The Viet Cong didnt wear military issue clothing. They wore civilian clothes. There was no way we could tell en enemy from an ally. During the day, they were invisible, which made them all the more dangerous. They lived next to our base in small villages, worked in the rice fields, walked past us in town, and sold us drinks in bars. Some even worked on our Base as surveying assistants, laborers, and laundry workers. It was that kind of war. There were eyes everywhere.
early spring --not like home, this hole in the wood floor
I flew by chopper from Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) to my permanent duty station, the YRBM-17, in Dong Tam , located in the fertile Mekong Delta region of the former Republic of South Vietnam. The year was 1968. I was 18 years old and had been in country a week and a half waiting for my permanent assignment. In some ways, Saigon was like any other duty station. There were lots of bars, brothels, and restaurants. All had flush toilets and running water. During my first free weekend in Dong Tam, I went on shore leave with some of my shipmates to Mytho, a nearby port city hugging the shoreline of the Mekong River. Ashore, we made a beline to the nearest restaurant, anxious to eat something different than Base chow. Built on stilts over the river, it looked like a nice, clean place to eat lunch and forget about the war. An easy thing to do when you are new in country and haven't yet experienced the reality of war. After downing what I thought was a water buffalo sandwich ( I later found out it was dog), I asked the woman behind the counter where the restroom was. She smiled and pointed to a door behind me. I opened the door and was instantly bewildered. There was no toilet or sink. Just a hole in the wood floor leading to the river below. Welcome to the Mekong Delta, sailor!
Napalm jelly is a mixture of gasoline and a thickening agent. It sticks to its target while burning. A person hit with napalm, dies a slow, hideously painful death. Some villages, thought to be enemy strongholds, were bombarded with the weapon via flamethrowers and incendiary bombs. There were nights when it rained napalm. Human beings were set on fire, burning like macabre candles.
orphan, who will feed you this starless night when sidewalks slay dreams?
The streets of Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City) and other cities in the former Republic of South Vietnam were filled with orphans and homeless children during the Vietnam War. Directly or indirectly, they were victims of the war. Whole villages were bombed. Families extinguished. Mothers and fathers fighting for one side or the other, laying dead in rice fields and jungles. Half dressed toddlers holding the hands of older siblings begging soldiers for money or food were commonplace. Their wounded looks and half smiles, haunting. Some of the children on the streets were love children of American soldiers who promised to marry their Vietnamese girlfriends and didnt...they returned home after their tour of duty, leaving behind them empty promises and a family with no means of support.
Vietnam is called the land of the Ascending Dragon. As a sailor during the Vietnam War, I was stationed in-country for eleven months. Not a particularly long time under normal conditions. But these werent normal times. I was 18, newly graduated from high school, still in the throes of adolescence, and living in a war zone. It was a mind numbing experiencing. I left the former Republic of South Vietnam in 1968, glad to return home and continue on with my life. Little did I know that what I experienced in Vietnam would follow me home and influence my life even today. Many of my values and perceptions on life were challenged during my tour of duty. I was forced to grow up overnight, face skeletons Id hidden in my closet, and make life changing decisions without my parents advice. Today, I am in the autumn of my life. Like an old friend, the dragon continues to visit me.
whose shadows are they, these spectres from across the river?
Those living in the villages near our base played host to shadows almost every night. Outside their thatched roofs homes, soldiers did what they did. The villagers knew well enough to stay inside and wait for the night to pass. This wasnt their war.
you furrow the skin of those who furrow the ground this long day
The Vietnamese sun is a hard task master. It breathes on the faces of those laboring in the rice fields, seven days a week, transforming their skin into leathery masks. Cosmetic creams and beauty treatments are for the rich. Villagers get up before dawn, work long hours in the rice fields, and return home at night to thatched roof houses without ovens, refrigerators, and running water. It is a life few of us in the West understand.
overcast night --- the skeleton you bring me is older than the last
All of us on base were required to stand guard duty on a rotating basis. The security of the base depended on it. Located in the Mekong Delta region of the former Republic of South Vietnam, the area was a hotbed for Viet Cong activity. Some nights were quiet. Others were forays into hell, the air pierced with automatic rifle fire and incoming mortars. On guard duty, you stared into the darkness, minute after minute, hour after hour, listening, waiting, watching...your body tense, your imagination taunting you with pictures of what could be. You never let your guard down. The night had eyes. Especially on an overcast night. It was a darkness unlike any darkness Id encountered...an eerie rainforest of nothing. Dense, inky, and quiet. Too quiet. Even the cricket knew to be silent. Standing watch at night brought me face to face with mortality, a concept I hadnt entertained as a high school student. Before the war, I thought I was invincible. Death, something that visited the diseased and old people. Facing mortality, my deepest thoughts and feelings surfaced. Psychological skeletons, previously suppressed, came to life. Nobody to impress. No masks to wear. My senses clear, unmuddied by alcohol and marijuana. The longer I stood watch, the deeper my thoughts. Fear, hatred, self doubt... skeletons of every shape and size appeared out of the darkness, waging war with my mind. A war I am still fighting.
dangling from your hand the severed head of someone not unlike yourself
War can turn a young man into a monster. Strip him of innocence. Sculpt him into something far removed from what he was before he was plunged into a battlefield he was unprepared to enter. A group of teenage soldiers posed for a photograph with a buddy holding up the severed head of a Viet Cong soldier. They were smiling, like deer hunters after a successful hunt. The severed head the soldier held above his head belonged to a human being. A person, not unlike himself. The soldier and his buddies didnt see the their prey, however, as a human being. They saw him as a monkey. A gook. A canvas of skin painted with their hatred and scorn. In a war they didnt understand, pumped full of fear and adrenaline, soldiers watched fellow soldiers drop like flies. The carnage beyond comprehension. Like something from a horror movie. Experiences that scar people for life, alter their sense of right and wrong, slay their inner child. The dehumanization of the Viet Cong Soldier was a venting of anger, a way of dealing with the horror movie circumstances forced them to act in. It was a dastardly, inexcusable act. A scene perpetrated over and over again by soldiers on both sides of the battlefield. War can destroy a persons soul.
rice sifted through fingers calloused with what wasnt supposed to have been
On the nights and weekends when the war was somewhere else, many of us headed for the redlight district wanting to forget, for a brief moment, the nightmare wed been thrust into. On one of those forays, I visited a bar located on the top floor of a hotel that once catered to Saigons elite when South Vietnam was under French rule. The dimly lit ballroom was a brothel, the paint on its walls peeling, a shadow of what it once had been, when the rich drank exotic drinks from long stemmed glasses and dined on food the majority of the people in Vietnam never heard of. Bar Girls were everywhere, dressed in tight, revealing dresses, catering to the needs of servicemen like myself. Unlike their counterparts in the United States, they were not addicted to drugs and didnt live with a pimp. Many were war widows. Most had extended families to support and saw their profession as a temporary means to provide their loved ones with the necessities of life manual labor and a wartime economy could not provide. I sat down on a bench and looked at the available Bar Girls, contemplating which one I would select as my girlfriend for the evening. Seated a few feet from me was an attractive woman, approximately nineteen years old, cradling a young infant. Dressed like a Bar Girl, the look on her face said, Not tonight. Curiosity got the best of me and I asked her who the father of her baby was. She told me he was an American soldier shed met in the bar eighteen months earlier. Theyd had fallen in love, lived together, and got married in a civil ceremony. When it was time for her husband to return to the United States, he promised his newly pregnant wife hed come back. She told me she was waiting for her husband that night as she had done almost every night since his departure. Hearing her story saddened me. I knew her husband would never return. Hed used her. Her hopes of a better life for herself and her son, something theyd never realize. A few years later, in 1975, The United States withdrew from the War, the fate of the Republic of South Vietnams citizenry, in the hands of its communist captors. Bar Girls, like the woman Id spoken with that evening, especially those with Eurasian children, were sent to reeducation camps. Life in the camps were harsh, the work strenuous, the treatment unbelievably cruel. A life that wasnt supposed to have been.
silent screams keep me awake at night the air thick with heat
During my tour of duty, I gained a respect and admiration for the Vietnamese people and their culture. Some of them became friends, inviting me into their homes for a meal, sharing with me glimpses into their lives, their beliefs, and their outlook on a variety of subjects. I met them in their villages, on base where some of them were employed, and in the cities and towns I visited during shore leave. Many were appreciative of our presence in their country and wanted the liberty we enjoy in the U.S. They looked up to Americans and expected us to win the war. Unfortunately, there was a heavy price to pay for befriending us. The Viet Cong had eyes in every village and city. Informants kept track of those who befriended us. When the enemy launched an offensive, they were ruthless to American sympathizers, setting fire to their homes, laying waste to their rice fields, submitting them to the kind of torture we see today in horror movies. I remember a laundry worker my shipmates and I hired to do our laundry and ironing. She was a sweet spirited married woman in her early thirties with a perpetual smile on her face. She worked hard for little pay and never complained. All she wanted was to feed and clothe her family. During one offensive, she and the other workers were away from our base for three weeks. She returned a different person. Gone was the smile on her face, the hope in her eyes. Her brothers, sisters, parents, and husband were slaughtered. Her house burnt down. On her back, horrible burns and welts, an example made by the Viet Cong to warn others of what would happen to those who support the American and South Vietnamese war effort. There was nothing I or my shipmates could do to help this woman or the other contract workers on base during the offensive. We were preoccupied with protecting the base and ourselves.
Many nights, I couldnt sleep, thinking about their fate, picturing in my mind what the enemy was doing to them. I was also afraid for myself, not sure if Id make it home alive. It was a tug-o-war of the senses. After my tour of duty, at least I was able to leave the war. This laundry worker and others like her had to remain in it. And the worse was yet to come. In 1975, the American military withdrew from the War. The Republic of South Vietnam fell to the Communists within hours of our departure. What happened next was not a pretty picture.
The armed forces representing both sides of the Vietnam War claimed to be fighting for the good of the Vietnamese people. The war, however, did more to devastate the country and its citizenry than to help. Villages and cities were leveled, rice fields torched, the economy drained. Innocent people were slaughtered...victims of rockets, bayonets, booby traps, mortars, bullets, bombs, and napalm. Others were maimed and disfigured; burn victims, people without arms and legs; without sight or voice; the ability to support themselves and their families taken from them, a death sentence in itself.
The sun was relentless that summer afternoon, like it was every afternoon in the hot, sticky Mekong River Delta. I took my time swabbing the upper deck of the YRBM-17, an ugly gray river repair boat barge permanently moored in the man made harbor at Dong Tam, an American military base forged out of a rice field bordering the jungle and a tributary of the Mytho River. Overhead, I saw a large pea green chopper working its way across the blue sky. An airborne tow truck, it was hollowed out in the middle, carrying in its wake, the wreckage of a Cobra Gunship, a small combat chopper downed by enemy rocket-fire. I wondered where it was going and why it was being towed. The gunship was damaged beyond repair. A bullet ridden shell that would never return to the country that built it.
war hero, asleep beneath a rice field ripe with land mines
The Vietnam War ended when the U.S. Military left the former Republic of South Vietnam in 1975. North Vietnam annexed the country, creating a united Vietnam. We in America commemorate the sacrifice of 50,000 plus. U.S. military personnel who died during the war. It is important for people to remember that over one million human beings lost their lives. Many more were maimed, raped, and mentally savaged. Today, buried beneath the fertile soil of this country, are thousands of live land mines, bombs, and booby traps that still threaten lives some 27 years after the war ended. During the war, the amount of ordinances dropped into the province of Quang Tri alone was larger than that dropped in all of Europe during World War II.
Vietnam is a sleeping dragon. She was colonized for over a thousand years by China, Japan, France, and the U.S.(economically); every country wanting a piece of the pie. South Vietnam is rich in oil, rubber, and mineral resources. Vietnam today is struggling to chart its own course, the dragon rising from its nest, adjusting to the world around it.
The former Republic of South Vietnam is a tropical paradise; very different from what I am used to in the United States where there are four distinct seasons. In Vietnam, there are variations of one season: summer. It is almost always hot, humid, the ever green countryside and jungles teeming with exotic plants and trees. On some days, the temperature got as high as 127 degrees Fahrenheit with 100% humidity. After an hour in the hot sun, our uniforms were soaked, our bodies dripping with sweat. During a fire fight, soldiers couldnt always retrieve those who died. Bullets and mortars were flying in all directions. Bodies were left behind. Or what remained of them.
Most villagers in the Republic of South Vietnam wore black silk pajama-like clothing and cone shaped straw hats. They still do. The clothing is light, inexpensive, easy to care for, and ideally suited for those living in a tropical, humid climate. The straw hats shield villagers from the affects of the hot sun, especially those who labor in the rice fields. Due to the war, nightfall was a lightless affair. Lights gave away positions; made people targets. During the monsoon season, darkness in the villages was especially thick, the moon often hiding behind clouds. Walking through a village was a challenge for American servicemen. Doing it quietly, even more of a challenge. Villagers, on the other hand, navigated the tiny paths between buildings and straw thatched roof homes with ease. Dressed in black and dark skinned, the villagers were invisible at night with the exception of those wearing straw hats.
near the ground that will claim her, the old woman hawking rice
Retirement is something most of us living in the United States look forward to. Thanks to Social Security and pensions, it is a time to rest, to do the things we always wanted to do but couldnt. This is a foreign concept to the people living in the Mekong Delta region of southern Vietnam. There are no pensions or social security checks for the laborers in the rice fields and the vendors in the marketplace. Life is hard. People work until they can no longer work. They go to work before dawn and work long hours. The only rest they get is the rest they get at night. There are no bowling alleys, movie theaters, and shopping centers to visit when the work day has ended. The villagers do what people do in homes lacking the modern conveniences we take for granted: cook, sew, mend, repair, build, wash clothes by hand, and prepare for the next day.
In Mytho City, it was commonplace to see old women stooping next to the baskets of rice, fruit, or vegetables they were hawking in the marketplace. Their skin, leathery from exposure to the sun. Their backs, bowed from years of hard labor. Survival, their motivation.
no sleeping in... a young girl prepares herself for the rice fields
Young girls in America have it made. Many sleep in on the weekends. The only work they do are the few jobs assigned to them by their parents such as cleaning their rooms and helping out in the kitchen. Once their chores are finished, most are free to play with their friends, hang out at the mall, see the latest Hollywood movie, or to engage in some other past-time indigenous to affluent youth. Life for girls in Vietnam is not the same. They are expected to work alongside their parents. Many in the fertile Mekong Delta region get up before sunrise and labor for endless hours in the rice fields, their hands and feet calloused, their backs bent over, not in prayer, doing their part to sustain the lives of family members. It is a hard life. Something most of us in America have trouble comprehending.
There were people in the villages I visited in the Mekong Delta who barely eked out a living. They lived from one bowl of rice to another. A concept I wasnt familiar with coming from a middle class family in affluent America. Long before sunup, villagers readied themselves and their \families to work in he rice fields. They labored in the fields well past the 8 hour work day we are used to. The weather was sometimes 127 degrees with 100% humidity. A day off was a luxury they could not afford, even on the weekends. A pregnant woman did not take time off to prepare for birth, nor could she after the baby was born. Her family had to eat. \She labored under a relentless sun, her back bent over, her newborn in a sling hanging from her chest...the nearest hospital, several miles away.
Imagine for a moment, celebrating Christmas in the jungles of the former Republic of South Vietnam. The year is 1968. You graduated from high school the previous year. This is your first Christmas away from home. And the first time you have been out of the country. You are eating canned rations with some of your buddies. Reminiscing about past Christmases. Making the most of a difficult situation. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the unmistakable sound of an incoming mortar. And another. The sky is raining shrapnel. Bullets whiz past you. There is nowhere to hide. You and your buddies dive to the jungle floor, your weapons aimed in the direction of enemy fire. Your hearts beating a hundred miles an hour. As soon as the firefight starts, it stops. It is time to clean up and assess the damages. Your first Christmas away from home. Hanging on the tree in front of you, bits and pieces of someone youd reminisced with an hour earlier.