My first blog post is not by me, but by Quy Nguyen, a custodian in our district who I came to know while he was assigned to my building. I was deeply moved when he shared his essay with me several years ago, and he gave me permission to share it with others. I have made no edits, except perhaps to break one paragraph into two or three to enhance readability in a blog format. This is Quy’s story, in his own words:
Half a Dream
My name is Quy Nguyen and I was born on the 4th of July. I grew up in Hue, Vietnam also seen as the central of Vietnam. It was once known as the “Imperial Citadel” by the rulings of kings and queens amidst it all, the legacy of the majestic fortress still lingers even today. My parent’s country was located in North Vietnam, but the couple soon fled to the Southern region due to the Geneva agreement which physically divides Vietnam into North and South during 1954. They fled was voluntary due to the Northern president Ho chi Minh’s recited communist actions, imploring every being in the North to flee elsewhere.
Despite all this, my childhood had been very tranquil. I remember my childhood vividly as if it were yesterday. It was a wonderful time because I was naïve, having no worries of this and that. The siblings and I were raised with the utmost love and devotion, presented by both parents. There in Hue, we lived in a relatively suitable sized home with a beautiful view of the imperial ruins, a pure water well, and a large exotic fruit garden surrounded by white picket fences. I couldn’t have asked for anything greater.
Living this great childhood also had its bad terms. I had longed to erase the engrossed memories of 1966 and years further beyond that, but it embraces an inner feeling that it’ll never vanish. During 1966, I recall an American compound located near my house. The ultimate purpose for this compound was to surrender the protection of South Vietnam. I had snuck by the compound regularly, visiting my American friends, but my dearest Government Issued (GI) friend was Frank Doezema. Frank was a specialist four rank, single, and rather handsome. Even though our language barrier was an issue, the unconditional love that was illustrated between us showed that even language wasn’t a factor to hold us down. Frank wasn’t any ordinary white male I had ever met; he and I had a special bond that no one could interpret into words. It almost felt as if our souls had voyage a troubled journey in searching for one another where our dream of brotherhood society will in turn grow together.
During yonder years with Frank, I had not asked for much, rather did ask of any troubling favors of him. Frank had been the one who’s compassionate in all aspect during my childhood years. Knowing my middle school was roughly two miles away from my house; Frank did the honor of lashing his heavy army jeep upon the dusty roadway, waving and whistling to signal he had arrived. Never have I sat in one, let alone allow my grubby fingertips smear upon the surface of Frank’s jeep because of disbelief and awe. Neighbors and strangers whom we’d passed on the jeep squeeze and raised their eyebrows as Frank escalated down the sandy pathway heading to my middle school. Going to school with Frank had been the same repeated process, dashing our way out while laughing at little jokes or merely giggle at the fact that we had fifteen minutes of quality time before heading off to class. The drizzling days were spent huddled indoors, furnishing our warmth as Frank and I pulverized and husked the rice for afternoon preparations. He hadn’t complained about the back breaking work titles, rather Frank saw it as a meaningful way to creating a stronger, everlasting bond.
I especially enjoyed those hot musty nights the best because Frank was by my side teaching me English until my eyes couldn’t handle it anymore, deceasing my mind into a deep, relaxing dream. Frank had whispered his repetitive hopes to me each night before I went to bed, wishing after the war had ceased, that he and I would once meet again in his country, America. I had gotten too familiar with seeing Frank on a daily basis that if being separated from Frank, it would only result in pulsating anger and heartbreak. Thoughts like this had slipped my mind. Frank was a radio operator of some sort, something I’m so unfamiliar with. An operation ten miles away from the base had indicated the need of Frank’s help; therefore he packed his belongings and set forth to the unknown territory, unsure of whom or what was awaiting him. A straight week had quivered by and still there had been no sign of Frank.
I loomed around the base daily, asking his friends about him and when he shall return. The friends shook their heads and knew nothing of it. A worried feeling rushed through my body as the thought of Frank never returning crossed my mind. The long, agitating week had final been over and I decided to stroll along the base line once again. This day had been scorching deadly rays upon my bony back and as the searing prolonged; my eyes kept squinting as I continued to look down the dusty pathway. There appeared to be a shambled figure upon the distance and because of the radiated heat waves the pavements gave off, it was hard to tell who this mysterious figure was. It limped its way closer to me and amazingly it had been Frank, my best friend whom I’ve waited to see all week long. Frank knelt down to his knees and edged me close to him, sensing his heart race and his body shaking, I began to cry. Frank struggled to endure the pain he had felt for the both of us, but couldn’t resist and heaved his head on my shoulder and began crying as well. The two of us shall never forget this day.
Having spent some time with Frank now, our bond was closer than ever that Frank felt the need to send me clothes from America. I objected the idea, but he insisted that I replace my tattered garments for urban street wear kids are presenting in America. A few days later the present had arrived in an L19 airplane which hovered over the rooftop of my house twice before plunging the gift down, landing perfectly on the front patio. Everyone clapped their hands joyfully knowing the gift had reached its destination in one piece. The package was neatly folded in blue metallic wrapping paper with a bow situated up top. I carefully unlaced the bow and set it aside. Slowly tearing off the tapes on the side was challenging for I didn’t want to ruin the neatly wrapped delicacy. Inside appeared to be a pair of blue jeans, a colored flannel, and brown steel toe boots all rearranged in a fashionable manner. I grasped the new items and embraced it upon my chest as if I were squeezing a loved one. I scrambled inside and tried on the untouched garments, slowly placing my body parts through the sacred items. Frank stood appalled, looking at the different me. I ran up to Frank and clinched his stomach firmly, thanking him for all he’s done.
During the twilight hours, while the entire village had conjured their meals, Frank’s base had been bombarded by the Northern enemies causing fire and smoke to embed the skies. Beyond distance I realized the thick black smoke had lurked its way throughout the village and the only person I could think of was Frank. Cautiously creeping my way down into Frank’s bunker, I realized the electricity on the base had been diminished with sparks of fire popping in every corner. I hurried down into the bunker in search for Frank when he appeared behind me with a worried look buried deep in his eyes. After finding each other for a few seconds, he and I burst into tears while carrying the burden feeling of worries in our hearts for each other, unsure of what would become of us. Frank asked if I had been okay then quickly seized my hands and handed me a can of orange juice. Looking down at the orange juice for some time, Frank withdrew from my presence and returned to work immediately. Oh how the emotion gripped my heart, nearly causing insanity to take over me! The helpless cries I’ve heard this night mainly came from injured soldiers, cleaving to the wounded nations of their body. I’d wanted to help so much, but time was running out and my family needed the comfort of each other in order to surpass this unexpected catastrophic disaster. I nervously jerked my head upwards, capturing the scene of destruct and feeling helpless knowing the city of Hue is strutting under the fumes of ghastly toxins with little being done for our nation’s sake. The only action being done by our leading force was to deliberately aim the artillery shells to counter attack the enemy targets in a cross fire manner and defend our compound. For the moment I’d been revived knowing Frank had been okay, but my other definitive side was entwined with fear from this day on out.
Our villagers are still coping with the recent event, not knowing when to erase the horrible affair, but progress was being made and so have I. Frank’s enlistment time here in Hue was near ending when MACV had ordered him to transfer jobs and dwell in their compartment for the time being because the previous compound was evidently unsafe. Staying at MACV also meant Frank can depart his duty and travel back home for a visit. The day he left, I purposely hid from him because I knew the heartache I’ll show will only cause some strains and an uneasy feeling. Finally, with some thought, I hugged him from behind making sure he knows I didn’t want him to leave. He and I slowly paced our way to his new MACV compound, there, I handed him my new address in Hue. Frank knelt down and hugged me for the last time before he departed and promised the two of us would meet again. Frank’s body, which I’m so familiar of is becoming is becoming a rotten banana, flimsy and weak. I noticed as he took his last glance at me before entering the base, concluding that his well being had not been the same. I reached out my hand and waved in a ‘goodbye’ motion, but the imperative feeling in me wanted to chase after him and bring him back to Wonderland. The door behind Frank shut so loud that the harsh clatter throbbed deep within my ears. I turned away and headed back to my lonely house where there’ll be no signs of Frank. For days, I had left my school work piled up in a dusty mound, just like the genocide of Jews during the infamous Nazi attack as they had been piled up. School mates didn’t matter neither did my daily intakes of nutrition. The best I could do was to drape my body in a bedspread and ponder out the window, wondering where Frank was and when he’ll return.
Continuous assaults from the North were still being seen around my district so my father decided to move us out of that dangerous zone and into our new home in Hue, which he’d bought a few months earlier. The distance to our new home was approximately 29 kilometers away, therefore my family decided to travel by car. I on the other hand, was accompanied by some GI friends who gave me a lift in a helicopter. The new home was decent in size with pained green walls along with cement flooring throughout the house. The sentiment of the new house was much different than our previous. The surrounding environment of the new home was booming with industrialized factories, air borne pollution when in contrast, our previous house appeared to look just like a painting, with blossomed wild lilacs and grass the color of jade. It took several days for me to settle in when my father suddenly told me Frank had been looking for me. My family and I drove yet another 30 kilometers to bring back Frank from his MACV compound. ALAS! Standing before Frank’s eye, I nearly broke down as the thought of him leaving to America this day struck me. There wasn’t much to do, but to seize the moment together. We brought Frank back to our new house for an afternoon lunch. This was our last meal together before he left. After our meal, Frank stood up and pulled out two valuable items and showed them to me. With the items cupped under his palms, Frank edged the two items closer to me. He told me I could either chose his camera or his wrist watch as a souvenir. I gazed at the two precious items back and forth and came to a conclusion that I wanted the camera more than anything because it was much heavier in structure and also it would not get lost easily. Frank slipped the wrist watch back into his pants and handed me his camera, which I still kept even today. My palms were cupping one of Frank’s belongings; therefore I enforced tight security measures for the camera in order for it to last, aging along with me. I thanked him again, but all he could say was, “I’ll return on New Years, the first day of Tet.” I understood what he meant so I shook my head and waved farewell.
It was a new beginning knowing Frank would not stop by frequently, calling my name as he passed by or husking rice for afternoon preparations almost causing a heart wrench that nearly left me lifeless, nearly collapsed on the cement floor in agony. Without Frank, my family and I still managed to start a new life in Hue and with the New Year coming, we were hoping for a brand new start with many joyous memories to come. Living in Hue for some time, I had learned to appreciate the natural beauty its landscapes showed or how many educated scholars were raised here. Gazing ahead, the scenery of Hue city filled my eyes with pleasure more and more as if I’m peering at an untangle world, a world only meant for the elite royalties. Adding above that, the celebration of the monkey (1968) filled the pavements of Hue with colorful decors and tantalizing lit lanterns signifying the kept heritage of Hue traditions causing this city to appear even more surreal. Tet is always rejoiced with the use of explosive fireworks for three whole days, starting New Year’ Eve.
As New Year’s Eve struck midnight, the Vietcong’s began the “Tet Offensive” which in translation means an undeclared war and the unforgiving actions towards the Vietcongs for the devastating wipe out of innocent souls before Tet during 1968. The struck of midnight was meant to fill the hearts of Hue citizens with a festive feeling for tomorrow morning’s celebration, the first day of Tet. This had not been the case. The news of this came rushing like hungry fire ants, and with little time to spare, my mom with an older sister and two younger brothers huddled in a safe, secluded area in our new house, thinking that this area could virtually escape the death and destruct of the outside world. Right then, an American bomb unleashed the fatal volatile bomb which bashed on the sector where my mom and siblings were concealing, killing all four innocent souls within seconds. I let out a deafening cry, but no one can hear me through the combat noise. I slumped to my knees with tears flooding down my cheeks while peering at the scene of my mom and siblings wilt behind the trapped clouds of gas and infernal flames which augmented through the hole of the ceiling. The “friendly fire” which hit a part of my house will forever be engrossed by remembrance on bad terms.
Over thirty years have passed by, yet the flashbacks of this mortifying event concurs vividly in ways that I can never seem to escape. I often asked myself, “why do other kids have moms, and I don’t?” The simple answer to this question is war. War is the conflict carried on between two nations or parties within a nation resulting in a series of battles either by land, sea, or air. I often reminisce of my mother giggling or remember the way her hair flowed along with the icy winter breeze. I even note the anniversary of her death each year as it comes around.
My mom’s name was Thi, my sister’s name was Duy and my two other brothers were Thang and Trang. I couldn’t stand seeing them rot under the “friendly fire” therefore my dad and I dragged the four bodies from the fire and set them aside. I had never seen, nor touched the ashy texture of dead corpse before. The texture was mixed with burnt rubber skin, situated above the decayed bones and the four faces have altered their appearances greatly that it was beyond recognition. I wanted so much to bury the bodies to a place that’s respectable, away from all the distortion around us, but it was nearly impossible for the war did not end even after three days the bodies have been laying lifeless beside me. The odors of the corpse were leaching into my wits causing a nauseous sensation to withdraw from me. Waiting desperately won’t get anywhere I thought; therefore, I hauled the bodies outside where I can burrow four graves for my four family members. My scrawny body hadn’t eaten for three whole days, so my hauling process requires extreme effort and there was no one around to help me. I used a rusty hoe which I found very useful. The hoe was used to flip the bodies over as if I was plowing a field of potatoes, flipping and turning. Once the four bodies reached the dangerous outdoors, I quickly dug my first whole in the front yard, removing the earthen portion of the soil and then the next and so on. I dug an extra hole just in case there had been an explosion nearby, I could quickly seek protection in the trench.
Complete and utter shock it was. I was on my own and was ready to drop the four bodies in their separate graves when my father comes running towards me. We both stood in silence, listening to the careless explosions nearby and peered at the roaming citizens whom are dreading with fear and perplexing their blood shot eyes. Still, we stood in silence. My father and I said our quick prayers, for we too, have stepped onto the danger zone of not knowing when our lives are at stake. We placed the bodies in their graves and my dad quickly drew the soil on their body, and then up to their neck. A string of tear crawled down my cheeks when the soil had toppled their faces, for I know that was my last time being able to glimpse at their features. Immediately after burying the bodies, my father’s sanity and hatred for this war skyrocketed; hammering his head on brick walls until blood dripped from his forehead with brick imprints marking his forehead. It was quite obvious my father didn’t care about himself or anything else at the moment.
Still in the danger zone, I seized my father’s hand and ran to the nearest intersection where the destruction was taking place. A natural instinct immersed suddenly, an instinct so dangerous that our lives were on the line. I quickly stooped my father and I down to the ground when at the same moment a rocket charged at our direction, openly above our heads. We laid there for what seemed a lifetime, with our arms shielding our heads, as if we had been hostages during an armed robbery assault. My father and I got up to our feet’s and scurried alone the death zone, watching from every angle for potential explosions. Yet within seconds, another outburst of explosion made its way towards another intersection, causing sparks of flame to ascend on trees and killing all plant life that surrounds. Shaken because of this sight, I gripped onto my father’s hand even tighter. Ashes flew throughout the street without any hesitation creating the exact imaginary scene of hell, where only shadows of darkness with the eerie ripples of shriek transcending your every move.
There’s no way out now, I thought, but to endure what my fate has in store. I peered at the streets even deeper now and watched a widowed woman holding her young son trotting frantically in hopes of escaping death, but it was no use because a random bullet pierced through the head of the woman, causing her to shaken with pain and collapsing to the ground. The thick red blood poured out of her head so fast it created what seemed a circular pool around her corpse within seconds. The baby had not died however; rather it crept up to his mother and raised her shirt up high enough so that he can indulge himself with breast milk. It’ll always be indistinct for the soul of the widowed woman because she will never know her baby still longs to live with deprivation of nutrients or why a random bullet had been misdirected at her. I couldn’t bear the sight no longer so my father and I ran away to a nearby shelter, filled with friendly sailors and armed soldiers who were willing and helpful to us. Right then, we felt very grateful. After a few days, I asked the soldiers if I could visit my mom and sibling’s grave for grief and remembrance. They nodded and escorted us accordingly.
Passing by the murderous street where the widowed woman had died, I stopped to peer at the commotion. There had been an army tank controlled by a few men with jugs of flammable gas ready to be put to use. I stood and pondered as to why they carried such liquids when it hit me. The soldiers were preparing to ignite the widowed woman and her son as their form of preventing pesticide build up. The liquid gas drained the surface of their bodies and a lit match was dropped causing a bright glare in front of my eyes. After the bodies had been lit to ashes, the tank stampeded upon the deceased ashes with reassurance that all germs are now gone. I arrived at my mother and sibling’s tomb. No disturbances and no signs of suspected dug ups, thank god! All of the emotions that have been packed inside of me have suddenly spurred out when I saw the mounted hill of their grave. My tired body dropped before my mother’s grave and found myself hugging the dirt as if I was hugging her real presence. Although I knew she’s passed away, the distance between my mom and I are still close even though we are being separated by a sheet of dirt.
Years have passed and the news that Frank had been killed in the “Tet Offensive” had been brought to us. The camera that Frank passed onto me is now a living memory. Although thirty years have passed by, the flashing memories of Frank and I still emerge whenever I look at his damaged souvenirs. Somehow, I need to put my mind at peace. In recognition to Frank Doezema’s contribution to the Vietnam War, his name is respectively engraved on panel 36E, line 6 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C.
In 1972, I passed a test which placed me into a Medical University located in Sai Gon, VN. Due to the Vietnam War, my dream of becoming a successful doctor was the end of my career chapter. One year later, I was drafted into the war. I was sent to an officer’s training school at a Medical Military College and become a Medical Assistant Officer in the South Vietnam Army. Just two years into college, the Communist took control as soon as the United States Army left. For six miserable years, I was thrown into a “re-education camp” as if I’m some sort of barbarian that needed focus control. I felt like a hopeless slave working endless days and nights just to satisfy the communists. Our main job was to exploit wood and plant trees in the Northern Forest of Vietnam, along the Chinese and Laotian border. It was especially hard working during the winter time because the temperature dropped to 28 degrees F, but we kept on working because our pay in food was what kept us alive.
A lot of whom I became close with had died of mal-nutrition all because the brutal weather and the conditions they’ve received. My body would ache in agony at the end of a hard working day and the only thing I longed for some decent food to replenish my energy. Our only source of heat came from a stack of woods we had collected in the forest. No matter what weather condition or environment we worked in, we weren’t given any proper safety equipments to lessen our chance of getting hurt or ill. On the route to our work place, we had to swim across a river as there was no bridge to cross. Looming above were the guards with their pointed rifles, ready to fire at any given time. Those who died had died from malaria or typhoid fever all due to these unbearable conditions. Luckily I knew ways to avoid these unstoppable and infectious diseases. We had no proper medical treatment; therefore many of us were forced to take care of ourselves and others in any way possible.
Every month, the guards gave us permission to write a short letter home explaining whatever we can squeeze into the letter in ten minutes. Our families never received any letters and if one were to complain, they were severely punished. Some of the prisoners committed suicide by slicing their wrist veins or simply by drowning themselves in the river. Sometimes, they would deliberately step on unexplored ammunition that had fallen from the bombs. Many times I, too, thought of committing suicide because I couldn’t survive another day, but the vision of my mother had told me to cease. In the vision, my mother had told me, “You have a life to live, and one day you will return home.” My mother’s words of encouragement had given me support to bear with this crude lifestyle for the remaining time.
Our daily nutrition mainly consisted of boiled corn with salt and no meat was ever distributed to the prisoners. The corn that we ate had to be grown by ourselves along with the salt which we collected from the sea. After more than six years of being in jail, I was reassigned back home in Hue where years of discrimination had followed me. Because of my background, I was denied of work permit since my citizenship had been taken away, therefore the local policeman demanded me to report once a week regarding my social status. I took on many odd jobs since I wasn’t able to find a stable job. Luckily I found some odd jobs such as brick layering, cutting wood, digging wells, or whatever I could find to make ends meet.
Knowing that my life wasn’t improving, I decided to travel from Hue to Camau in hopes to escape by boat to any non-communist country around Asia. The residents of Camau weren’t hospitable to my presence and did not allow me to room with them. However, one family member felt pitiful towards me and so they lent me an abandoned pig cage which I felt grateful for. My day to day routine consisted of capturing crabs that were washed up along the shore. Of the crabs that I was able to catch, I would exchange the crabs for rice or money at a nearby business ship or local market. To make a living during the winter, I was given the opportunity to work in the paddy fields. Because I wasn’t a local resident of Camau, I was captured and locked up in a penitentiary for three months. A county court extradited me back to Hue because I had no work permit which was a requirement under the communist control.
In 1983, I finally returned home where I met my wife, Xao, and then married her in 1985 and had my first son, Hoa, in 1986. Two years later, my wife and I had twin daughters, Hong and Diem. In gratitude towards the Vietnam soldiers, an agreement was signed between the United States by President Bush’s Special Emissary and retired Army Gen. John W. Versey which allowed the soldiers to resettle in the United States according to the Humanitarian Operation on Nov. 13, 1991. I received a personal letter from the government which states that my family and I was sponsored by a Catholic church in Memphis, TN.
An opportunity like this was rare, but apart from that I would be leaving behind loved ones, for who knows how long. The unstoppable tears from the realization that I would be separated from my family by an ocean have still not been washed away. The language barrier and the different customs that I faced in this new land were frustrating because I was unwillingly to assimilate so quickly. As far as I knew, America provided promising opportunities, but the first few years in this new land didn’t seem to fulfill these words. In time, English was learned, skills were acquired and gradually this new culture was adapted. In all, it took me five years to appreciate what it means to in America and with this, I was able to graduate from Washington Technical College on Dec. 1997.
Coming to America has fulfilled half of my dream, but the other half is still untampered, which is to research MIA soldiers in Vietnam. The communist used terror of substance and spirit not only for all of the South Vietnam officers, but also to over 80 million Vietnamese to tighten their grip on a monopoly country as Vietnam today. These are very sad memories, but it is also the experiences of many South Vietnam Officers and the POWs and MIAs of the United States. I feel I have a debt to pay to the United States for my resettlement and freedom, which is why I would like to help in any possible way to resolve the MIA issue. My resettlement only seems half of my dream. I never blamed Americans, but I condemned the war. “Where liberty is, there is my country.”-Anonymous.
Since the beginning of the Vietnam War, I haven’t had the “normal childhood” like every regular American teenager. Because of this war, I was forced to grow up faster than most teenagers. Even till today, I often suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder. Although some memories are easy to forget, this experience will forever haunt my conscious.
