My School

“In memory of those, who died in the bombing of Nguyen Van Troi School in 1970, and those, who had sacrificed their lives in the Vietnam war.”

In the mid of October, 1969, our group of four had to measure a rather long distance by foot. Sometimes, it was pitch dark – couldn’t even see my own hand when holding it up close to the face, only followed the silent sound of footsteps and the cautious whisper of the liaison officer. Sometimes, we had to scurry over open fields that never seemed to end (people usually referred it as “the dog-yawning field”). And other times…we had to overcome areas with water high up to the chest.

Until one day, when the sun had just disappeared behind the horizon, we arrived at a facility, it was Nguyen Van Troi School. I was somewhat bewildered before a large hall. Sitting benches were made of trees about the size of my calf, binded together in pairs, and placed on a big ramp in a slopping position, with the front row being at the lower end and the back row being at the other top end. These trees were stripped – naked and clean. Surrounding the hall were trenches about four feet deep. Under the old trees situated what appeared to be small houses, stretched neatly and orderly, of which roofs were made by branches of coconut tree laid evenly on top of one another. The overall look of the facility were sufficient for me to acknowledge that the place was neat, clean and safe.

I was temporarily arranged a place to settle in. A few days later, the school put me through a formal test on math and Vietnamese. I remember the subject for my writing test was to describe about ‘my dog at home’. I passionately wrote about my lovely golden-hair dog back at home with all the love and affection that I had toward it at the deepest level, along with much sweet memories attached to the beloved family that I had just left behind. Unfortunately, my Vietnamese was so limited – as bold as soil, because I grew up mostly in Cambodia. It was probably due to that reason that even though I had priorly completed grade seven in Cambodia (commencement of secondary level according to the official system of the French’s education – equilvalent to grade five), the school had me assigned into only grade four (end of the first level of the Vietnamese’s).

Teacher Dat received me and took me to my class. The first few nights at the school, my mind was never at peace. How ridiculous! – I said to myself – Why on earth did I have to come and study here? If I were to study, I should have logically stayed back at the capital of a peaceful nation as of Cambodia, where educational purpose would be supported with sufficient books and studying materials, as well as living condition and general convenience.

I departed my study there with much longing, suppressed with all the wonderful memories – the clean pages of the workbooks, with the neat hand writing, the lovely ten- point marks filling throughout, the arwards (Tableau d’honneur) granted completely nine times a year, loved and respected by both teachers and friends.

I supposed that I did not leave such an ideal studying environment behind this time so to find a lesser one to study. I left to fight for what I believed in, to go to the battle front, to endure hardship, to fire guns, and to be as brave as the revolutionary soldiers that I had learned in literatures portraying about the heroic Sister Ut Tich, Bi Nang Tac, Le Chi Nguyen, Huynh Van Dang, Ta Thi Kieu, Nguyen Van Troi, Nguyen Duc Thuan, and so forth…ect…ect…

The more I thought about it the more I somehow felt regreted for having left behind my study, my intimate friends, my old school, and also the confidence on the wide avenue of education. I should have just stayed back there and continue to be a ‘boder-contact agent’, in another word, an errand boy – coming into deserted places to greet new recruiments and bring them to the battle front, sneaking back and forth between the border to deliver important documentation despite all the dangers and the tight security posed by the official border militanst just as old times.

Nevertheless, I became a student of Nguyen Van Troi School. Prior to six a.m, I would wake up, do the personal clean up, exercise, have breakfast, and then head up for class at seven thirty sharp. In the afternoon, I would either conduct some priorly demanded class activities or do some laboring works. And at night, I would do my homework, learn how to sing with my fellow classmates, and so forth…

There was this rather outstanding individual amongst my classmates, his name is Viet, a.k.a ‘Coc Tia’ (Fierce Frog). He could make all kinds of traps, you name it, he sure knew how to make it. Viet often brought home meats for our class. I recall this particular incident, one early morning, the forrest was still densely concentrated with fog, he came back from the wood with a huge chicken on one hand and a couple of traps on the other. Some of us greeted him with obvious excitements. He quickly subdue the crowd by putting an index finger across his lips, ‘Shsszzzzz…’. Taking another close look at the chicken, we shockingly realized that it was Teacher Dat’s. We all gave a hand in to help speeding up the process – boiling water, skinning, and cooking. In the squint of an eye…it was done! After class of that day, we all gathered together to enjoy ‘ the loot’, however, we did not forget to envite Teacher Dat to join us. Half way into the ‘rampage’, he couldn’t hold it down any longer, he murmured: “ How disaterous! Your chick had screwed up our great plan for the day. If it hadn’t just run into this trap of mine, then we, Teacher and student, would have had an awsome treat over some hamster meat!” We all laughed, laughters filled up an entire corner of the forrest.

Soon enough, all of my miseries had vaporated into the air like a glacier being melted down under the warm sun. I blended into the new life. The innocent sensitiveness and the natural joyfullness of a youngster had quickly made me become thrilled with the daily liveliness of the new friends, because here was also totally different from all the schools that I had previously attended.

I learned how to dig trench and underground shelter. The first few days, not as yet acquainted with the shover, the resistance of the handle made my hands feel terribly numb and were swolen with water concentrated under the skin. But slowly and gradually, the blade became more and more obedient – smoothly slashing into the soil with every strike. Walls of the trenches and shelters were also flatly trimmed as magnificient as those austere castles depicted in tales of the ancient Egypt. Cutting down trees to build houses, we would have to go deep into the wood if we wanted to find those that we desired – straight and strong- because all the good ones in the vicinity had been destroyed by local natives. We all love to have the opportunity to go on such trip, because not only we could find trees that we desired, there would also be good chances of coming across a honeybee hive or some jungle fruits. What we liked best was this one typical fruit, which could only be found in deep jungle. We called it ‘gui’, for there was not a scientific name assigned for it. There would be only one way to describe the unique taste of this fruit: incredibly fabulous!!! Even while undergoing a serious fever or dehydration we would rather die trying to get it than missing the opportunity when we had spotted one. It was definitely an incredible fruit that surely could not be found at any urban area throughout the world.

Besides renovating our house and our classroom, we also build for ourselves a small kitchen in adjacent to the house. We used it to boil condensed milk – a sweet treat we had invented that was as good as the Japanese’s Kitti. We also collected flowers from the wood to decorate along the sidewalk, beside the classroom, and all around the house. Life under difficult circimstance and unity had firmed together a group of people, who knew how to love and care for one another, a wave of people, who were as down-to-earth as soil itself – whose hearts and love were as pure as the morning dew.

It was a time, of which memories we could never forget. Most remarkable was what happened on the 5th of October, 1970. That day, about four in the evening, Teacher Dat made an announcement to select some of us to go on an important mission – conveying rice back for the facility. My name was amongst the list. I hurrily packed up all the necessities for the trip, tied them together by the shoes’ strings and hung them on the top-end of my hammet.

Teacher Dat did not forget to remind us to sip some sour soup before our departure. While preparing for the favorite soup, which we had not had in such a long time, Thuan came back from the forrest with some dry wood carried on his shoulder. He was tall, pale skin, and with a nose remarkably straight and high, he was considerred to be a good looking boy amongst us dark skin and flat nose ones. He wore a nylon short, sent to him from home, and a short-sleeve shirt. Right after he unencumbered the load off his shoulder, he whispered over to Teacher Dat, just loud enough for Teacher Dat to hear him: “You love them more than you love me, that’s why you always let them go, never me!”

Conveying rice was not something supposed to be fun, especially if one’s health condition was unsuitable for the task. Going on such a long distance by foot on rough roads would make the load of rice on the back become more and more havier. The rope tied criss-crossed the chest would often seem as though it squeezes the life out of us. When we could no longer bear the suffocation, we had to actually lean forward, like a mule going up- hill with a heavy load on the back, in order to get somewhat a comfort. Eyes blurred, soaking with sweat, and both sides of the temple swell up like two small balloons, but we just kept 4 on putting one foot in front of another without even a thought of complaint, for to us…this, amongst many other things, was just the normality of our every day life

We came back to the school around ten in the night. It was dark, and we were having trouble passing through the resting area of the 2nd and the 3rd grade, where hanging hammets were densely entangled – obstructing the walk way.

Suddenly, there was the familiar sound of a departing bomb very close by, and immediately, a thundering blast tore off the peaceful sky in the middle of the night. Subsequently followed was the screaming and wailing in pain, and the voices of people calling out for one another in total desperation. The bomb continued to terrorize the night. The rice-conveying team splitted up and dispersed.. I ran over a spot, where there were already some people hiding -Trung Nghia (a student of the 7th grade), Sister Hoang and Sister Dao (the two nurses of the school), and Teacher The. As soon as I got there, I over heard them telling each other to run off oppositely to the direction, of which the bombing originated in order to span away from the drop zone. And so they all ran toward the direction of the well. Myself though, I thought that bare-back running off as such would be drastically unsafe, but finding either an underground shelter, or if not, a tree or something big enough to block off the blow of the bombs would be a way better solution for this critical situation.

Confident and secured with the plan, I then immediately jumped and rolled over on the ground to the nearest big tree that I just spotted. I sat there for a short while, feeling somewhat proud toward my clever dicision, for I was still safe after a few bombs had blasted in the vicinity. Suddenly, there were voices of some girls approaching, most conspicuously was the shouting of Nghe Ha: “Here…here, guys, here…under this tree’s trunk!”. Shouting and rushing over to where I was hiding at the same time, she bumped into me and almost knocked me off the ground. Only until then did I realize that the bag of rice was still packing on my back. I turned it around to the front to have it conveniently acted as an improvised shield and moved aside to give space for the girls.

After about what seemed like fifteen minutes, the bombing ceased. The forrest seemed suffocated with smoke and fire, with debris still falling down like rain, and the sound of trees cracking… collapsing. Here and there…echoing the voices of people calling out for one another, still the screamings of terror and the crying in pains.

I was experienced enough to aware that this was just the first wave of bombing, temporarily
ceased just for a moment, then soon it would continue again. Taking full advantage of this precious opportunity, I promptly put down the rice bag still clinging onto me all this time and ran off like a shooting arrow trying to locate an underground shelter. I surprisingly ran into Trung Nghia again in just after a few steps. I asked him about the others, whom were with him earlier, he said that as soon they got to the well they were greeted by a full blast – Sister Hoang, Sister Dao, and Teacher The were all badly injured. Teacher The wailed intensely; Sister Dao bleeded to death not very long after both of her legs were cut off by bomb’s shrapnels. After joining me for just a few steps, feeling somewhat unease, he asked me: “Check and see if something is wrong with my left arm?” I gently gave it a couple shakes and asked him how he felt, he replied that he felt kinda numb. I then swirled it in circular motion, he reported no feeling whatsoever. I proceeded on exammining his shoulder, appeared sticky and wet, I turned on the flash-light to have a real look at it and discovered 5 an area about half the size of my palm ripped open. I informed him that he had been hit, he was then starting to feel ‘tired and sleepy’. I had his arms wrapped around my shoulder and carried him along while repeatedly shouting on the top of my lung: “Help…help…, where is the shelter…, where is the shelter?”

As we were passing through the 5th grade area, I heard a response nearby: “Shelter is here…shelter is here!” I located to spot, where I had just received the response, and draged him over to it. It was a newly digged shelter, unfinished, with the over-top still yet fully coverred. I carried Trung Nghia down into the tunnel. Teacher Huyen’s voice echoed from amongst the crowd: “Whoever’s injurred, bring in here!” Accordingly, those along side of the entrance made way and helped to carry Trung Nghia down into the central area of the shelter. The rest stayed put where they had been.

After Trung Nghia had been secured down into the shelter, I now realized that I was left all alone at the top of the entrance. I tried to mop a little further down into the tunnel but hopeless, for it was tightly packed with people piling on top of one another, and so I had no choice but to sit at the very top of the entrance with half of my body still exposed above the ground level.

Suddenly, at that moment, what I feared most had eventually arrived - the bombing commenced again. The first one of this round had hit very close to where I was. At first, I saw a blue-like florrescent beam descended from the sky along with a heavily pounded sound as it made impact with the ground. It appeared as if it was fanning. I fearfully mop down into the shelter’s entrance although there was barely any space underneath for me to do so. A thundering, earth-shattering explosion disolved the air, making my chest feel as if it had just been hit by a thousand pounds hammer. My head was densely packed with splattering dirt to the root. I immediately conducted a brief check over myself to see if I had been hit any where. Luckily, I cheated death – nothing had happened to me exept just a few minor cuts here and there. I began to feel a tremendous fear intensely vibrated throughout my body. My jaws were uncontrollably clapping against one another, and no matter how much I tried to calm myself down I just could not stop shaking.

I looked up to the empty space above me praying for a big tree’s branch somehow just fall down on top of the shelter’s entrance so I could get a little more protection, but that miracle just did not occur to me. When the bombing had just ceased for the second time, I again ran off like a bullet toward the direction of my class. Somebody had left an alluminum bucket on the ground, I tripped over it and fell hardly on my hip, producing a sound pretty much like an explosion that for a flitted moment it had scared the hell outta me, for I thought a bomb’s igniter had just exploded under my hip, my life would have been over. Luckily, it wasn’t the case. The bucket was now crushed and left there on the ground as I got up and continued to run off…

Perhaps…the paranoia and the tripping were the causes to my confusion and misdirection as I found myself running back to the 2nd grade area again. Here too, the screamings and the cryings filled up the atmosphere. Sang was seriously injured at the belly – his intestant fell out almost entirely. Besides him were two others, one being Sang’s elder brother, Minh. Minh was holding his brother tightly in his arms. Nearby was Nga, whose forehead had been cut off in half by bomb’s shrapnel and died in an awkward position. Sang also took his last 6 breath. Minh gently kissed his brother on the fore-head then laid him down on the ground. He left his brother there, and joined the help-team to rescue other injured people.

I got to my class, eventually. It was a disaster, everyone had gone down into the shelter. As I was approaching the shelter’s entrance, Teacher Dat had also just crawled up from down below, I instantly asked him if every one was alright. He hesitated for a moment, and then told me that Thuan was missing. I felf dizzy and had trouble keeping my toes on balance when I received the horrible news, for Thuan and I had been very close friends.

Teacher Dat and I therefore went looking for him. As we got to the spot, where his hammet had always been located, oh my God, all we saw was a deep, enormous pit about two meters wide. All there was left that I could recognize was just a hand of his – coldly laying there amongst the erosion-like soil. His hammet and personal belongings were all destroyed into little torn pieces and splattered all over the vicinity. So was mine, for his hammet and mine had been tied in adjacent with one another by the same pole. I felt dizzy again, much more intense this time, to the point that I almost fainted. Teacher Dat had to catch me and assisted me to maintain balance as I was losing control of my body. Part of me, I had wanted so much to jump down into that pit to hold on to that only hand left of his, but the other half…I had not enough the courage to do so. My eyes started to get spicy and blurry…and then tears just uncontrollably rushed out.

Overwhelmed with love and memories toward Thuan, no longer there would be times the two of us shared some biscuits topped with condensed milk together – eating and laughing together as we clumsily tried to catch the drippy condensed milk running down. Teacher Dat said in sorrow: “I commanded every one to get down into the shelter, I then conducted a count on each individual, just Thuan…, I repeatedly called for his name but he never responsed to it. Of-course, how could he ever response to it when his body had already been blown up into thousands of pieces? And even his spirit was still wandering around somewhere nearby he still could not audibly express his hatred toward the war and the sudden tragic death that had taken away all the beautiful dreams of a youth and a hope for a better tomorrow.

In that moment, the overflown tears of mine had blurred a perception. Condemn to be free with feelings and emotions of a sixteen year old youth toward the loss of a bestfriend and the lack of bravery had caused me to miss forever the opportunity for a meaningful act of love and friendship that has gone on tormenting my soul until today, each and every time I remember that cold, lonesome, and hopeless hand lying nakedly on the soil. Why hadn’t I jumped down into that pit and picked up that hand, had it wrapped decently and subsequently burry it somewhere that I could always come back for a visit whenever I wanted? To me, this is indeed the greatest remorse of my life.

The entire school was ordered an immediate evacuation. Teacher Dat reminded every one not forget to bring along the bottle of newly made fat-oil. Binh and Tuyet Hoa (Committee’s members of the class) carried the rice cooking pot by a rod. Tuyet Hoa, at the same time, had to carry her belongings on the other hand, because her back-pack had been used for the rice conveying purpose earlier and misplaced somewhere.

After nearly a day marching, we stopped for a break in a sparse pine-tree forrest. There was barely a reasonably decent spot to sit down due to the wetness of the on-going heavy rainfall. We had to sit in a squadding position with a nylon cover overtop in small groups. The rain continued to pour down on us, making it feel as if nature was also sharing our misery with its teardrops. I and Luy were sharing a nylon cover. Suddenly, as if he had just remembered something, he reached inside his shirt’s pocket and said: “The squirrel! The squirrel had been crushed to death since whenever!” Again, another loss! This squirrel, Luy had caught him in the wood when he was just a baby. The past months, every one tendered it and cared for it – often fed it with milk. It grew up before our eyes. It playfully ran and jumped from one hammet to another. His eyes were tiny, round, and intelligent. Its tail was long and as muffy as a feathered broom. It looked just absolutely adorable with its dexterity and firmness. Every one in the class just loved it! I and Luy burried it right in front of us. His eyes were all red. Suddenly, he snapped out out it and said: “Ahhh! There’s still half a can of condensed milk supposed to be reserved for the squirrel!” And so the two of us took turn to suck on it until it all dried out. How terrific the milk had made us feel after having gone through a whole night of hunger and exhaustion.

That day, each person only received a small spatchelor of rice. The number of rice cooking-pot we could take with us were insufficient to cook for such a large number of hundreds of people, plus the rain and the wetness of the wood, as such, we had to eat rice that was only partially cooked. Nobody would dare to use up the dry fried-rice – the typical one that every one always reserves for the most critical situation.

In the beginning of 1971, the Headquarter of the Southern Quadrant decided to let the students of Nguyen Van Troi School to continue studying in the North. Coming back to the South in August of 1975, we continued our study again, and the reunion this time around was rather intrigue. Teacher Dat of the old days, whom used to be our supervised teacher, now became a student of the same class. Nevertheless, we still called him ‘Teacher’ with equivalent respect, including those, who had never been his student before. I supposed there would be rarely anywhere on earth, whereas students of the same class would call another fellow classmate as such a way.

Coming to Saigon, that was the endeavor, the wish, the goal of the revolution. From the Tay Ninh battle front, it would only take about half a day of bird-flight but we had consistently marched in twenty years. During that twenty years, how many times had we had to change our sandals, but our spirit had never sworn away. During that twenty years…uncountable many had fallen down.

Today, amongst the peace of the nation, I think about love, seeing love as people want to express to each other, then people just freely do so without anything getting in the way. But those days, in the times of war, to have it and the freedom to express it, sometimes…we had to put our lives up upon great risk. That was the case of Teacher Duong Le Chi.

It was also on the night of that May, 10th, she had sacrificed her life. She had already gone down into the shelter, but just because she heard the calling for help echoing on the ground above, she decided to leave the shelter. Before departuring, she even made a remark to Thuy – her own younger sister: “If anything unfortunate happened to me, then make sure that you look out for the little ones (her students) for me!” She then rushed over to the 8 direction, where she had heard the crying for help. Thu, a girl pupil of the class, of which she directly supervised had been seriously injured – her entire intestant was fallen out- lying there unconsciously. She carried Thu and tried to get her down into the shelter. Bombs still blasting, trees still collapsing, and debris still falling down – just a few feet away from the shelter’s entrance…a bomb had stopped her from ever being able to advance another inch. She forever stayed there. Thu also took her last breath.

What had gone through her mind at that moment? Did she regret that she could not bring Thu down into the shelter? She probably did. If she had reluctantly debated on whether or not should she risk her life – a life flourishly ripen with abundant energy, radiantly blossoming with beauties of the 20’s, which subtly treasured indeterminable wonders of love and desires still awaited to be explored, then she would have never left the safe zone.

I suppose…even a fierce tiger full of power, or a king of the jungle, also would not willfully throw its life at the face of death; how ironically so…a person as graciously tender as she was, would rise beyond the realm of life and death as she did. Why so? Of what cause if it wasn’t for love, and for life’s ideal? Love…, life’s ideal…had redundantly appeared on my mind for thousands of times.

She was so beautiful – a teacher, a jovial and easy-going sister, with a face that always seemed radiant with glory, and a pony-tail so remarkably graceful of Teacher Chi. She was as beautiful as the moon shining amongst the thousands of sparkling stars on a clear night sky. She died, but our love for her has lived on forever within each and everyone of us.

Comfortably relaxing on our back in the warm homes amongst the peaceful city of today, although the gunshots are now vaguely remembered to us, but somewhere in the bottom of our eyes and in the deepest of our souls…those, who had fallen down that day still concentratedly imprinted with full rememberance.

Thirty years later, we came back to that place. A hollow and muddy area left behind by an ox after it had rested would make us suspect as a ‘bomb pit’. A torn piece of cloth hanging on a tree would also make us suspect that it may have belong to a fallen comrade. We prayed and we called for each name. We brought back everything that we thought related to them, in return, we had brought whatever left of them back to the heart of Saigon city, where they once dreamed to come to.

Reflecting and contemplating about war, I’ve come to realize that: whenever somebody conceivably compose a war, they usually make beliefs that it’s extremely necessary to do so in order to re-establish a new order – for the better. Amongst them all, how many would comprehend this rather simple truth: When being pregnant, any mother would wish to see that upon delivery her child be complete, beautiful, and intelligent. However, there’s absolutely no way at all the mothers could do to deliberately affect that desired outcome. If the mothers are unable to do this with the infants in their very own tummy, then how can we even think about determining the outcome of a much greater war.

Thus, regardless whatever eloquent speech or whichever flowery words are used by those politicians to manipulate or to reasonize a war, really, they are just vacuous words of complete nonsense, or better yet…, of infinite insanity.

To us, the people whom had lived inside the cradle of war for many many years, disasterous experiences have led us to a realization that: when facing with life or adversed circumstance, or when coming across things that surpass our common ability to comprehend, then it is best that we come back to the kernel of our being. When we do this, the ‘real us’ from within shall come to life, it shall give us peace in the mind, strength, and will power; it shall warm-up our souls and revive our love. It shall enhance our energy and revitalize our spirit. Only then shall we be able to stand strong on our feet and continue the journey. Whenever the mental value has become priceless - nothing could be compared with; whenever it has become the true master within ourselves and of our own destiny, then should we be able to talk about the meaning and the true value of life.

Time surreptitiously goes by as water in the river flowing down-stream, but I and my friends just keep going against the stream of time to find the long passed memories. That period of time, although it was short, but it had been as solid as iron, which had fused and firmed us into the persons that we’ve become today.

That period of time, although not very long, but it had been as solid as iron, which had fused and firmed us into the persons that we’ve become today. My school – was a nest of youngsters, who were passionate in the beauty of friendship, of love between teacher and student; of a hard life but was wealthy with self-confidence; of the jungle’s sweetness that still subtly treasured invaluable essences of nature. My school – was a cold cut-off hand lying lonesomely on the ground; was the deeply caved bomb pits scattered with bones; was the lessons written by blood and sobbing of the soul. That picture…I treasure it forever in my heart like an invaluable thing.

“My School” – an excerpt from the publication called “Subtle Note”, authored by an infamous writer, Mr. Tran Ma Thuong, sharing his personal experience on war, in general, and on the very intimate experience of the story.”

*Translated by Mr. Alex- Trong Nghia- Le, a great supporter for President Obama’s re-election, whom had dedicated his time wholeheartedly to complete the translation while going through the most challenging time of his life. “We both hope that this contribution will awaken the hearts of millions, whom may not have a genuine understanding about war in its truest sense, or might have forgotten about its impact 10 on humanity. Do not praise war and hatred! Let’s praise peace… and let’s praise love, instead!”

*From a small wooden hut, in the middle of a pine forrest, and under the shimmery lightof a candle – with a pencil, an erasier, and a rather old notebook…

Kon Plong, Kontum, Vietnam, July 14th, 2012.

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