| Painful roots inspire much gratitude (5/08) | | Print | |
| Written by Vietanh Phuong Tran | |
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We are who we are because of our families, because of what our relatives did, how they suffered and the stories they tell. My name is Vietanh, or Viet Anh, since it symbolizes my parents' dream. They dreamt of escaping the curse that fell upon them on April 30, 1975.
It was the Fall of Saigon — the moment when any hope of democracy and freedom collapsed. My parents recounted to me the horror that swept the streets. Men and women broke down and cried; soldiers rushed to hide, tearing off their uniforms as they ran, knowing that their enemies would not be kind to military captives; furniture and belongings were scattered on the ground; at the American embassy, a crowd of desperate people tried to scale the walls and jump onto the helicopters, terrified of the advancing, unforgiving force swarming across the city. Like the hell-reaching trough that comes before a towering tidal wave, a sense of bleakness pervaded every corner and alley. According to my parents, the world went dark that day. Torture commenced the next. The Communists claimed they liberated South Vietnam from American imperialists. But their methods were anything but compassionate. The government shipped many people, especially soldiers, to distant “reeducation” camps from which only a small number survived. My paternal grandfather, a lieutenant colonel of the South Vietnamese military, died in one of those camps for reasons my family will never know. Imagining a family member tortured or shot is a strange feeling. How different would my life be if that person were with me now? These people, their lives cut short, become shadows or ghosts. Their faces remain forever frozen, smiling, in black-and-white photographs. It’s eerie to think of those faces contorted by fear and pain. Many Vietnamese had to contend with such bloody and unnatural losses. But here, in America, this situation is relatively rare. I’m not saying this nation is paradise: We have our share of homicides and disasters. But, in comparison to the conflict that ripped Vietnam apart, America feels relatively safe. The safety that the United States provides lies in a system developed through a period of 250 years, starting with the formation of a constitution and a bill of rights guaranteeing individuals freedom of, among others, speech, worship, privacy and property. Through trials and errors and the efforts of leaders like Martin Luther King Jr., these rights were expanded to accommodate practically every citizen. Now, the nation continues to develop. I take heart in knowing that it has the capacity for growth, and that anybody can influence this change. But some Americans don’t see that. They find the United States a horrendous place — doomed to collapse — too “messed up” to last beyond a few more decades. I once overheard a man say to a colleague that the United States “is f―ed up.” He complained about “corruption” in the government, about a Congress that thinks of nothing but oil, about the eventual “fall” of America due to its many sins. Both men were sitting comfortably in a hot spa. Any semblance of such a discussion about the Communist government of Vietnam during my parents’ time or even nowadays ― to a slightly lesser extent ― would merit a decade or so in jail, or, if one is considered a threat to the nation, a sudden disappearance. Often, wiping away opposition may not be so quiet, as in my maternal grandmother's case. She held property and one day the government wanted it. My mother, some of her siblings and her father were either working or in school. The other half of her large family, including several children, was at home. Then she got a message. Let's just say that I would not be here if my mother were with her family that day. My parents named me Viet Anh because it means “Vietnam-England.” They dared not choose the name Viet My, roughly translated as “Vietnam-America,” because that might arouse suspicion. However, the intention remained the same: It symbolized a hope for a passage to the United States of America, where my family and I could have a future. I believe they couldn’t have made a better choice. If I stayed in my native country, I would have languished away, unable to attend college because of my unpatriotic background, always forced to worship the hated portrait of Uncle Ho Chi Minh on an altar (this is enforced by the police), always fearing the reactions to the words that came out of my mouth. In this context, I am delighted whenever I see a poster mocking President “Dubya” Bush’s “misstatements” or a book telling us why a certain governmental policy is erroneous. I like to watch two politicians battling it out in a fiery debate, knowing that they must act on their promises or lose the people’s trust. I want to remind people to not take the United States for granted. Those in Vietnam, North Korea, China or other nations under the grip of an authoritarian government have it a lot worse than us. Instead, work to improve it. President John F. Kennedy once said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” And if we want our country to do good to us, we certainly have to do good to our country. |
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to listen.
