(During the Vietnamese War – November 1, 1955 to April 30, 1975)
Mảnh Vỡ Quê Hương (Fragments of home)
I stood behind the market stall, the sun sinking low, the air thick with dust, and the sharp scent of tangy herbs and cardamom drifting from the stall next door. My hands, worn and rough from years of work, moved swiftly, knowing each plant by heart. Since my father died, it had become my job to stand here, selling what little we had.
"Bao nhiêu?" (How much?) came the raspy voice of an old man.
"Ba mươi đồng," (Thirty Dong,) I answered, my voice flat, fingers aching as I bundled up some sả (lemongrass) and hẹ (chives). He handed me a wrinkled bill. Not even close. Anyhow, I knew this routine too well. It was barely enough for a cup of simple pho. My adoptive father, Đăng, always took most of my tips anyway. I gave the old man a small, forced smile. "Cảm ơn," (Thanks,) I whispered, the words feeling hollow as they slipped from my mouth.
I wiped the sweat from my brow, glancing around the market. It was crowded, yet it felt like no one saw me, like I didn’t exist. Or maybe they just didn’t care. My mind wandered to promises—how they can heal, how they can break.
I still remember the day my father left for the war. I was just a child, but the emotions are as clear now as they were then. Pride and dread had wrapped around our small village like a mist. I remember him standing tall in his uniform, his face lined from years of working the land. He looked at me and my mother with love, even as his hands trembled, gripping the rifle slung over his shoulder.
"Chúng ta sẽ chiến thắng cuộc chiến này, vì tất cả chúng ta," (We will win this fight, for all of us,) he’d said, his voice steady. "Tôi sẽ quay lại, Mai. Tôi hứa." (I’ll come back, Mai. I promise.)
And I believed him. I stood at the edge of the village, watching him disappear with the soldiers down the dirt road, believing with all my heart that he would return. But promises made during war are fragile, easily shattered by gunfire and chaos.
The war crept into our lives like a thief, at first with whispers—rumors of distant battles, faint gunfire. Then it came closer, more like a pickpocket than a robber. The sky grew darker, and the sun seemed uncertain, as if it didn’t want to shine on us anymore. My mother began packing our things, though there wasn’t much to take. I tried asking her what was happening, but she was distant, her responses clipped.
“Chúng ta cần phải sống sót, Mai. Đó là tất cả những gì quan trọng bây giờ.” (We need to survive, Mai. That’s all that matters now.)
There was no comfort, no warmth in her words. Her face was drawn, eyes hollow as she listened to news of advancing troops, of bombings inching closer. One night, as gunfire echoed through the mountains, she sat at the edge of our bed, her hands shaking.
"Tôi sẽ tìm cách cho chúng ta," (I’m going to find a way for us,) she whispered, though I don’t think she was really talking to me. That way never included me.
One day I was outside playing, unaware of the terror unfolding. The ground shook, explosions ripping through the air, and I froze as smoke rose in the distance. The terror unfolded inside of me, making me quiver like the earth beneath me. I ran inside, calling for my mother. But the house was empty.
I stood there, my heart racing, calling out for her. But there was nothing—just the echo of my own voice and the rumble of bombs growing closer. She was gone.
I still hear the bombs in my dreams.
***
By the time the market closed, the sun had sunk low in the sky, casting a deep orange glow over the village. The few people who had wandered through the market that day were long gone, leaving me standing alone with my unsold herbs. I packed them up slowly, my hands moving more out of habit than purpose.
I clutched the small bag of wrinkled bills and loose coins I had earned that day. It wasn’t enough, I knew that, but it was all I had. As I approached the house—Đăng’s house, really—my stomach clenched. I had hoped to make more today, to avoid the usual arguments. But hope was a fragile thing, like everything else.
The door creaked open, and the sharp smell of rice and fried fish hit me as I stepped inside. Đăng was sitting at the low wooden table, a half-full bowl of rice in front of him. He didn’t look up as I entered, but I knew he had heard me.
"Về muộn," (You're late,) he said, his voice thick with irritation. His eyes flicked toward me, but he didn’t move from his spot.
"Hôm nay bán được bao nhiêu?" (How much did you sell today?)
I swallowed the lump in my throat and placed the small pile of money on the table. "Không nhiều lắm," (Not much,) I admitted, barely loud enough for him to hear.
Đăng snorted, his mouth curling into a bitter smile. "Không nhiều lắm? Đó không đủ để nuôi sống ai cả, Mai!" (Not much? That’s not enough to feed anyone, Mai!)
I stood there in silence, my hands twisting the fabric of my áo dài (Traditional Vietnamese dress), a habit I’d picked up when I was nervous. He always found a reason to be angry. No matter how hard I worked or how little the market gave me, it was never enough for him. When they had first adopted me, they had soft smiles and had greeted me with hugs. Now they were the exact opposite.
His wife, Lan, appeared from the small kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She glanced at me, her face tight, and I knew what was coming. "Mai," she began, her tone sharp. "Chị có biết chúng tôi đang phải chật vật thế nào không? Chúng tôi đã cưu mang em, cho em chỗ ở, và đây là cách em trả ơn sao?" (Do you know how hard we’re struggling? We took you in, gave you a place to stay, and this is how you repay us?)
They had taken me in after my mother disappeared, that much was true. But, it didn’t matter that I spent every day working until my hands bled. To them, it was never enough.
"Em đang cố gắng," (I’m trying,) I whispered, my voice cracking as I stared at the floor, willing myself not to cry.
Đăng slammed his fist against the table, rattling the few coins I had brought home. "Cố gắng? Em cố gắng thì tại sao chúng ta vẫn thiếu thốn như vậy?" (Trying? If you're trying, why are we still struggling?)
Lan crossed her arms, her expression hard. "Có lẽ nếu bạn nhanh hơn hoặc làm việc chăm chỉ hơn, chúng tôi sẽ không phải lo lắng về việc cho bạn ăn mỗi tối." (Maybe if you were faster or worked harder, we wouldn't have to worry about feeding you every night.)
I nodded, wanting to scream, to tell them that it wasn’t my fault, that I was doing everything I could.
Đăng pushed the money off the table with a scowl, sending the coins clattering to the floor. "Nhặt nó lên," (Pick it up,) he snapped, turning his attention back to his food. "Và đừng nghĩ đến chuyện đi ngủ khi chưa chuẩn bị xong đồ cho ngày mai." (And don’t even think about going to bed until you’ve prepared everything for tomorrow.)
I dropped to my knees, quickly gathering the scattered coins. My hands trembled as I reached for the last one, a single copper piece rolling under the table. The humiliation burned in my cheeks, but I kept my head down. This was my life now—picking up the pieces, surviving each day as best I could.
When I finished, I stood up and made my way to the back of the house, where the small room I slept in waited. I lay down on the thin mat, staring up at the ceiling, my heart heavy with the weight of it all. The war had taken everything from me—my father, my mother, even my sense of belonging. But it hadn’t taken my hope. Not yet.
As I closed my eyes, I made a silent promise to myself. I would find her. Somehow, I would find her, and maybe then, I could piece together the fragments of my broken life.
***
The next morning, the village woke to the sound of distant helicopters, their rhythmic thrum echoing through the valley. It was a sound I had grown used to, but today, it seemed louder, more insistent, as if urging me to move. I stood at the market stall again, selling the same herbs to the same faces. But my heart wasn’t in it. My mind was elsewhere.
The day dragged on, and when the last customer left, I made my decision. I couldn’t stay here any longer, not in this village or this house that wasn’t my home. I sold what little I had—a few more herbs, a handful of rice. It would have to be enough. I couldn’t tell Đăng or Lan that I was leaving; they wouldn’t have understood, or worse, they would have stopped me. I had to slip away quietly, like my mother had done all those years ago.
I kept my head down as I walked, my feet kicking up dust as I followed the worn path. Some places were abandoned, the houses crumbling, their windows shattered. Others were still inhabited, but the people there moved like shadows, their faces drawn and hollow. I didn’t speak to anyone, and no one spoke to me. We were all just trying to survive.
"Đi tìm mẹ mình à?" (Are you looking for your mother?) came a voice from behind me.
I turned quickly, my heart pounding. An old woman stood there, her face wrinkled and weathered by years of hard living. She carried a basket on her back, filled with what looked like dried fish and herbs. I hesitated, not sure if I should answer.
"Đừng lo, tôi chỉ hỏi thôi. Tôi đã thấy nhiều cô gái trẻ đi tìm như em." (Don’t worry, I’m just asking. I’ve seen many young girls like you, searching for someone.) Her eyes were kind, but there was a sadness behind them, a kind of knowing that made my stomach twist.
"Bà biết gì về mẹ tôi không?" (Do you know anything about my mother?) I asked, surprising myself with the question. My voice sounded small, even to me.
The woman sighed, shifting the weight of her basket. "Rất nhiều người đã mất mát trong chiến tranh. Có người rời đi để tìm một cuộc sống mới, có người bị cuốn đi mà không còn dấu vết. Em nghĩ mẹ mình là ai trong số đó?" (Many have lost someone in this war. Some leave to start a new life, others are swept away without a trace. Which one do you think your mother is?)
I didn’t know how to answer. Was my mother still alive, building a new life somewhere far from here? Or had the war swallowed her whole, leaving nothing behind but the memory of her face?
"Có một trại tị nạn ở phía nam. Nhiều người đã đến đó sau khi làng của họ bị tấn công. Có thể mẹ em đã đi về phía đó." (There’s a refugee camp to the south. Many went there after their villages were attacked. Maybe your mother headed that way.)
"Cảm ơn bà," (Thank you) I said, my voice thick with emotion.
The woman nodded, and I set off. As the sun set behind the hills, I reached a fork in the road. One path led back to the village, back to the life I had always known. The other led south, toward the camp, toward the unknown.
I didn’t hesitate. I turned south and kept walking.
***
The journey stretched on for days. The land was scarred by war—burnt fields, shattered homes, and the occasional rusting tank. As I neared the refugee camp, the landscape changed. The silence of the countryside was replaced by the buzz of voices, the shuffle of weary feet, and the smell of smoke from makeshift fires. People had gathered here from all over, each of them carrying their own stories of loss and survival.
I wandered through the camp, asking anyone who would listen about my mother. "Mẹ tôi, bà ấy có thể đã đến đây, bà ấy tên là Hà. Có ai đã thấy bà ấy không?" (My mother, she might have come here. Her name is Hà. Has anyone seen her?)
I was beginning to lose hope when an old woman approached me, her back bent from years of labor. Her eyes were sharp though, and she studied me with a knowing gaze.
"Tên mẹ em là Hà?" (Your mother’s name is Hà?) she asked.
"Bà biết mẹ tôi không?" (Do you know her?) My heart pounded in my chest, a mixture of fear and hope.
"Vâng, Cô ấy đã ở đây, nhưng cô ấy đã rời đi khoảng một năm trước." (She was here, but she left about a year ago.)
My breath caught in my throat. "Rời đi?" (She left?) I repeated, not sure I understood.
"Bà ấy đi đến thành phố, nơi bà nghĩ có thể bắt đầu lại. Bà ấy tìm kiếm một cuộc sống mới." (She went to the city, thinking she could start over. She wanted to build a new life.) The old woman’s voice was soft, but her words hit me hard.
I didn’t know how to feel. My mother had been here, so close, but now she was gone again, out of reach. I stood there, stunned, as the old woman gave me directions to the city. It was the only lead I had, so I thanked her and began walking once more.
***
Days later, the city came into view, its skyline a jagged line against the hazy sky. The streets were crowded and noisy, a stark contrast to the quiet village I had left behind. I asked around, following the directions the old woman had given me until I finally found the street where my mother lived.
The door to the small house creaked as I knocked. My hands trembled, heart racing. A moment later, the door opened, and there she was—my mother. She looked older and more tired, but it was her.
"Mẹ..." (Mom...) The word slipped from my lips, barely a whisper.
She stared at me, her face blank with shock, as if she had seen a ghost. "Mai? Con đến đây làm gì?" (Mai? What are you doing here?) Her voice was cold, distant.
I blinked, unsure how to respond. This wasn’t the reunion I had imagined. I had expected relief, maybe even joy, but all I felt was an overwhelming sense of confusion and loss.
"Con đã tìm mẹ suốt thời gian qua. Mẹ đã bỏ đi... tại sao?" (I’ve been looking for you all this time. You left… why?) My voice cracked, and I fought to keep the tears back.
She looked away, unable to meet my eyes. "Mẹ phải rời đi. Mẹ không có lựa chọn nào khác." (I had to leave. I didn’t have a choice.) Her tone was flat, emotionless.
"Nhưng tại sao lại bỏ con lại?" (But why did you leave me behind?) I asked, my voice rising with the years of pain that had built up inside me.
"Con không hiểu đâu. Mẹ không thể đưa con theo. Mẹ phải sống sót." (You don’t understand. I couldn’t take you with me. I had to survive.) She finally looked at me, but there was no warmth in her gaze.
I took a step back. I had come all this way, through war-torn villages, through years of loneliness, only to find that the mother I had been searching for no longer existed. In her place was a stranger—someone who had moved on, leaving me behind in the wreckage.
"Mẹ đã có gia đình mới." (I have a new family now,) she said softly, as if that would ease the blow. “My mother left me when I was your age. It was a hard decision for her, and even harder for me. Now it’s your turn, and look how strong you have become.”
I swallowed hard, the weight of her words crashing down on me. I had always imagined that finding my mother would heal the wounds of my past, but now I realize that some wounds could never be healed.
"Thì tôi sẽ tiếp tục sống sót," (Then I’ll keep surviving,) I whispered, more to myself than to her. I turned and walked away, not waiting for her response. There was nothing left for me here.
The journey back to the market felt lighter, even though the same dust and smoke still hung in the air. I had found my mother, but I hadn’t found what I was looking for. Actually, in some sense, I had. My mother had confirmed what I was afraid of. This war shattered everything that we had known.
Back at the market stall, I laid out my herbs, my hands moving through the motions I knew so well. The sun dipped low, casting a soft golden glow over the village. People came and went, and I sold what I could. But this time, something was different. I no longer felt invisible, no longer felt trapped in the past. I was still here, and I was still standing.
"Cảm ơn," (Thanks,) I said to a customer, and this time, the words didn’t feel hollow. They felt real. Because now, I knew that the only person who could rebuild my life was me.
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