Sacred Land - Tay Ninh Online Newspaper

The convoy from Ho Chi Minh City, carrying the first wave of settlers, including Hai Huan's family, stopped at a crossroads in the forest. It was late afternoon. A brief announcement was made: "We've arrived at our new homeland, everyone! Please get off quickly so the vehicles can return in time for the next trip tomorrow morning."

Throughout the journey, Hai Huân's mother, over sixty years old, suffered from motion sickness, her face pale, her head slumped against her daughter-in-law's back. Hai Huân was also drowsy, nodding off. Suddenly, there were loud banging on the door. Startled awake, he quickly lifted his mother, who was slumped like a pickled cabbage, and hoisted her out of the car.

Looking up at the stormy, dark clouds in the sky, and glancing to the side of the road, he saw an abandoned house with mud walls and a freshly thatched, bright yellow roof. He decided to go inside. He laid his mother down temporarily on a makeshift bed constructed from still-green bamboo stalks.

Feeling somewhat reassured, he went back out with his wife and son and managed to pull the trunk and several bags of belongings down from the roof of the car, just as it started raining heavily. Sensing that the rain would continue, the head of the organizing committee ordered the entire group to shoulder their loads and march with him to receive the house.

Upon arriving at Hai Huan's place, seeing the old woman hunched over, vomiting profusely, and a pile of soaking wet belongings, and noticing Hai Huan's limping gait, the old man, feeling sorry for him, pursed his lips and issued a verbal order: "Well, I'll leave this house to you and your wife." Hai Huan nodded and thanked him profusely.

His close friend, a fellow tricycle driver from the same street, whispered to him: "You're incredibly stupid. Standing in the middle of this open intersection, if the Cambodians ambush you, you'll be dead." As if guided by some intuition, Hai Huân retorted curtly: "Do you think it's that easy to die?" He let out a long sigh and hurried away, turning back to utter a sharp, sarcastic curse: "You unteachable idiot!"

Nearly two decades later, this place has become a town, a district-level economic and political center. The old crossroads of the forest have become the district town center, brightly lit all night long. Opposite Hai Huân's house, a large commercial and service area has been built, featuring a vast market hall housing hundreds of small traders.

From dawn till dusk, the area was packed with people. The district authorities reclaimed land in the other two corners to build several towering office buildings. Hai Huân's corner plot at the intersection and those of the other households along the street were left untouched as part of the residential area. Many people lamented, regretting not being quicker to grab that corner house back then.

Having become accustomed to a slow, frugal life during the subsidy era, in the first few years of the transition to a market economy , everyone scrambled to keep up with the rapid changes. Households with land along the road, like Hai Huân's, competed to divide their land into plots large enough to build a townhouse, then engaged in buying and selling, exchanging the width of their land for the height of their multi-story houses.

The friend who once called him incredibly stupid now chuckled: "Hai Huân has become Hai Hên! Sitting with his legs spread apart counting gold to put in his safe, how lucky!" In response, Hai Hên also chuckled, a laugh that was neither happy nor sad.

Ten years later, the old new economic village was completely gone. Along both sides of the road, at all four intersections, buildings sprang up, and every household opened shops and businesses, raking in profits. Only Hai Huân's garden, with its two perpendicular facades facing the two main streets, remained unchanged, lush with fruit trees providing shade for his old, rusty three-room house with its tin roof.

Many people drooled over that land that seemed to generate gold, pleading, begging, and coercing, but Hai Huan remained steadfast in his refusal to sell. Now, in everyone's eyes, Hai Huan has become a crazy person. Deep down, Hai Huan is also saddened by that label of "crazy." He also wants to express his deepest feelings about why he wants to keep this land as pure as it once was and remains as pure as it has always been.

But whenever he was about to speak, he was met with greedy eyes and mouths that only spoke of money, gold, profit, and loss. He felt they were unworthy of sharing the thoughts and feelings he had so respectfully cherished in his heart.

Because for nearly forty years, his entire family had lived and worked peacefully on that piece of land, eating and sleeping there, breathing the pure air that enveloped it, and his children had grown up to be decent people. To him, it was sacred land that had to be protected and preserved so that no one and nothing could defile it.

Hai Huân's father died young, leaving his mother to raise him alone while selling rice cakes and sticky rice dumplings in baskets throughout Saigon's alleys and streets. At the age of five, Hai Huân suffered a fever that nearly killed him. He survived, but one of his legs atrophied.

From then on, every step he took was unsteady and wobbly. Despite that slight disability, the rest of his body developed wonderfully. He was as sturdy as a ball of rice. By the age of seven or eight, he could grind flour all day to help his mother make cakes. By his teens, he was strong enough to ride a three-wheeled bicycle, carrying a hundred different things for the city's vendors. Then he married – a woman whose circumstances were similar to his, wearing tattered clothes like his mother, also carrying a yoke on her shoulders, selling all sorts of goods from baskets at the ends of the street.

A year before the liberation of Saigon, my son Han, who wasn't old enough to be drafted into the army, was released because one of his eyes was cloudy and dull like the pulp of a longan fruit. So, thanks to his disability, my son and I escaped punishment for carrying a gun without knowing which enemy was aiming at it.

The day her grandson brought home his military exemption certificate, Hai Huan's mother's eyes twinkled with a smile, but a few tears clung to her lips as she said, "What a miserable family this is, a crippled father and a blind son." Hai Huan's wife smiled brightly, "Don't you see Aunt Tu's house next door? Her husband died in battle, and her son just died too. Now she's all alone."

In the first few months after liberation, Saigon experienced high unemployment. The local government encouraged people to move to new economic zones with many incentives. Hai Huân, with the whole family's agreement, eagerly registered for a spot. He didn't regret handing over his dilapidated house, which resembled a crow's nest, to the local authorities.

But whether his family would prosper in this wild, desolate place left him with a lingering sense of unease. On his first night in the unfamiliar mud-walled house, surrounded by the constant creaking of geckos, he strangely felt no anxiety or unease.

It was as if someone was whispering to him that it was destiny, that he was returning to his place from long ago. That night, amidst the incessant murmur of rain, neither fully awake nor fully asleep, he vaguely heard, in the rustling forest wind, sometimes far away, sometimes very close, shouts of "one, two, three, four…" along with many hurried footsteps running past his house.

He suspected there was a military camp nearby. Near dawn, he crept across the road and sat at a table with some old men having early morning coffee. It was still very early; the forest was pitch black at night.

The dilapidated shack had only a few low, makeshift bamboo tables and chairs. A few oil lamps cast flickering yellowish glows. After a few minutes of polite conversation and introductions, he inquired about the shouts in the rain the previous night. The men showed no surprise. Then the oldest one whispered: "There's no military camp here. But we hear them all the time. This crossroads was very fierce back then. Many of us died. Many died on the other side too."

It's so sad. On stormy nights, I hear that rumbling movement. But in the morning, there's not a single soldier in sight. This land is sacred. Behind the house he just received, about five hundred meters away, was the forward surgical station of the Liberation Army during the war. And this road back then was just a trail used by messengers to lead troops to the Central Committee headquarters nearby, about ten kilometers away.

So, there must be many more remains of fallen soldiers buried underground. That thought flashed through his mind, and as he returned to his new house, Hai Huân instinctively walked cautiously, afraid of accidentally stepping on something sacred lying buried in the grass.

At dawn, Hai Huân wandered alone around the garden he had just been assigned. Several large tree stumps, with pieces of their trunks still oozing sap protruding from the ground, lay scattered among termite mounds as big as haystacks. Here and there, clumps of reeds sprouted with shoots.

For some reason, in the middle of the garden, there was only one wild starfruit tree left, its trunk so thick it would take a person to hug it. Its branches and leaves were laden with ripe, golden fruit. Hidden among the leaves, tiny birds pecked at the juicy, ripe fruit.

He vaguely heard the giggling of many young girls. Looking up, he saw many pairs of bird-like eyes wide open, blinking at him intimately, no different from human eyes. With his machete in hand, he cleared the weeds around the base of the tree, thinking to himself, perhaps in the past, the Liberation Army girls had come here to pick these fruits, eat them together with relish, giggle together, and feel a pang of nostalgia for their homeland.

Perhaps some of them are buried here, their spirits still returning to whisper together under the shade of this ancient tree. A week later, while clearing weeds at the end of the garden, the father and son discovered a small mound of earth, about two meters long and almost one meter wide.

Remembering the old men's words from the other day, suspecting it was a soldier's grave, he and his son dug up the earth and neatly piled it up. That very noon, he set up a sacred altar on top of the mound and offered incense and flowers, praying that if this was the resting place of any fallen soldiers, he would reveal it in a dream, and he would do everything possible to contact them so that their remains could be returned to their homeland.

After bowing three times, he saw the three incense sticks glow unusually brightly, and the three pieces of incense ash curled into a circle, forming a three-petaled flower. From then on, his family never forgot to offer incense and flowers as a sacrifice on the 15th and 1st of each lunar month.

Later that year, Hai Huân's wife gave birth to a daughter. When the baby cried her first cry, the name Hồng Liên flashed through his mind, and his wife gently suggested they name her Hồng Liên. Hồng Liên's one-month birthday coincided with the second day of the ninth lunar month.

His mother slaughtered a chicken, cooked sticky rice, celebrated National Day, and offered prayers to the midwife goddess for the baby. Of course, she didn't forget to make offerings at the sacred altar at the end of the garden. That afternoon, feeling a little tipsy from the wine, Hai Huân slung his jacket over his shoulder and strolled to the gate, intending to have a cup of coffee to further enhance his happiness.

Suddenly, a military Jeep screeched to a halt in the middle of the road. A female Liberation Army soldier stepped out of the door. With a bright smile hidden beneath her floppy hat, she approached and took his hand warmly, as if they were old friends reuniting.

Then they pulled him into the car, saying the unit respectfully invited him to a party. He silently complied like a robot. The car sped towards the distant forest for about ten minutes before stopping in front of the barracks gate. The courtyard was packed with soldiers pacing back and forth. About a dozen girls rushed out, chattering excitedly to greet him.

They all wore bucket hats, flip-flops, and green military uniforms. Their eyes sparkled, their hair was long and jet black, but the colors of their clothes were faded and worn from the sun and rain.

Seemingly sensing the look of pity and concern in his eyes for the lives of female soldiers, an older woman said: "It's been several years since we received our uniforms. You have to understand that our country is still poor in many ways, sir."

After saying that, they all pulled him into the feast. The feast included beef and pork, both prepared in the Northern style. That day, the girls took turns offering him drinks. It was so joyful and touching that both host and guest drank a lot.

Then the girls swayed, sang, laughed, and hugged each other, crying, making him feel tears welling up in his eyes as well. In his dazed state, he overheard them saying to each other: "I wonder if he'll recognize us coming to pick starfruit from the tree in the garden every day? And Lien, you have to take good care of him; your house is so cozy thanks to him."

Around late afternoon, the girls chattered as they saw him off to the car, some crying, some laughing reluctantly. When the car reached the gate, Lien lingered, leaning on his shoulder and sobbing: "Brother! I miss my mother so much. It's been ten years since I've been able to see her." In response, he could only cry with her. They parted with affectionate farewells. He staggered, his steps unsteady, before reaching the door, when he heard the whole family exclaim: "He's awake! He's awake!" His mother's voice added: "What a weakling! Just a few drinks and he's been drunk all evening." Opening his eyes, he found himself lying in bed surrounded by family and neighbors. Regaining his composure, he said nothing. He remained silent, pondering the strange party he had just attended.

The next morning, he quietly went to the District Military Headquarters to report about the mound of earth at the end of the garden. He also didn't forget to recount the story, a mix of fact and fiction, from the previous afternoon. About a week later, a team collecting the remains of fallen soldiers came to his place to set up an altar. They dug about a meter deep and hit a green canvas sheet. Carefully opening it, they found a small, perfectly preserved skeleton inside. A head still had long, shiny black hair. Beside it were two porcelain bowls, nestled tightly together. Opening the bowls revealed a photograph of a girl in a plastic bag, her chubby cheeks and bright smile revealing rows of even teeth. Strangely, just seconds later, the photograph was just a blank sheet of paper. But Hai Huân still recognized her as the female soldier who had collapsed on his shoulder, sobbing, missing her elderly mother in the North, on that strange afternoon. In the bowl lay the empty penicillin vial containing a piece of paper, faded but still legible: Nguyen Thi Hong Lien, hometown… died on… After the remains of martyr Lien were moved, Hai Huan felt an overwhelming emptiness, a dazed feeling as if he had just permanently parted ways with his beloved younger sister. That same afternoon, he sent a letter to Lien's family in the North. He anxiously took a bus to the foot of Mount Ba to commission a stonemason to engrave a tombstone: “This was once the resting place of martyr Nguyen Thi Hong Lien, hometown… died on…”. Then he had it transported and erected it solemnly in the center of the land that the soldiers had just excavated. Still not satisfied, he and his son painstakingly gathered several small oil palm trees to plant at the four corners of the tombstone, silently praying that this land would be a resting place for the souls of martyrs who had not yet had the chance to return to their homeland, the land they longed for and cherished.

About half a month later, the eldest brother of the fallen soldier Hong Lien stepped out of a UAZ vehicle parked in front of Hai Huan's house. Having witnessed firsthand the affection of Hai Huan's family for his sister, he left a picture of Hong Lien for Hai Huan to place on the altar. After spending a night together, the brothers confided in each other, and he felt a deep affection for Hai Huan, treating him like his own younger brother. They embraced warmly at their parting. He said, "Hong Lien has accepted you as her older brother. So you are also my younger brother. My mother has been waiting for this day for so many years. In a few days, Lien will be with my mother. On behalf of the family, I thank you very much." Being speechless, Hai Huan could only hold his brother's hands and weep. The following month, the district committee suddenly sent someone to process the paperwork and decided to hire Han as a clerk. From then on, Hai Huan's son received a monthly salary, plus a rice ration, and the Hai Huan family was less worried about daily meals. Without asking, Hai Huan secretly guessed that his sworn brother from the North held a very high position and had sent someone to help his son get ahead in life. Later, his son Hong Lien graduated from university and applied for a job at a branch office in Ho Chi Minh City, and was immediately hired. A few months later, the head of the department told him that Deputy Minister H… had come to visit him, and only then did Hai Huan realize that his sworn brother was now the Deputy Minister of Ministry X.

Now, Hai Huan is old and frail. His mother, then his wife, have both passed away. His son, Han, is married. His wife runs a cosmetics stall in the market. She never pays attention to housework, spending her days busy painting her nails and eyeliner. Fearing that having many children would make her age prematurely, she only gave him one grandson. This year, the boy is in fifth grade. Currently, Hai Huan's eyesight is failing, and his legs are more unsteady. Twice a day, he wanders around the garden, leaning on his cane, sweeping up fallen leaves and cleaning the stone benches he placed under the ancient oil trees that now spread their shade over the tombstone marking the resting place of his sister, Hong Lien. Those benches are never without couples whispering sweet nothings at night. In the mornings, old people come to sit and sunbathe, exchanging pleasantries. The starfruit tree in the middle of the garden has a trunk larger than a man's embrace. All year round, it laden with fruit. Many times he looked up and saw the familiar birds from years ago, chirping and pecking at the ripe, golden starfruit. Now, their eyes were still wide and sparkling like human eyes. But their playful spirit was gone. Sometimes they would stand together with their wings folded, looking listless. Each time, he would hear someone faintly mentioning Miss Lien, who hadn't come to visit for a long time. It was as if many voices were calling out for their mother. He could only stand there, hugging the tree and weeping. Those who witnessed this whispered to each other that old Hai Huan was getting too old and had gone mad.

Last night, he overheard Hân and his wife arguing. His wife said, "I told you to cut down the starfruit tree and build a house to open a cosmetics shop. It's a golden opportunity, and you don't know how to take advantage of it." His husband retorted, "Shut your mouth! Touching the starfruit tree is like touching my father's life!" His wife let out a long, drawn-out sigh, "You're about to die and you're still clinging to your possessions." This afternoon, his grandson came home from school pouting, "Grandpa, buy me an electric bike." He patted his head and murmured, "I don't have that much money." His grandson, quick-witted, replied, "Well, you could sell a little bit of land and buy a lot of things. My mom said so!"

Hearing his grandson's innocent suggestion, Hai Huan, distraught, leaned on his cane and went into the garden. He painfully stroked the tombstone, tears streaming down his face as he embraced the old starfruit tree. He knew the day he would return to his mother's realm, where his wife and his sister Hong Lien were present, was fast approaching.

What will become of this sacred land? Worried and anxious all afternoon, he couldn't sleep. At midnight, he suddenly remembered something from ten years ago: a Chinese or Taiwanese man had stayed at his house all day. The man kept rambling: "My fate is perfectly aligned with the feng shui of this land. Whatever price you set, I'll agree immediately; money is no problem. If I can open a supermarket here, I'll strike it rich, I won't forget you…" Annoyed, he told the man: "Go to the starfruit tree and pray to the spirits first to see if they approve." The man eagerly lit incense and went to the garden to worship. A few minutes later, his face ashen, he returned stammering: "I'm so scared, so scared." While saying this, he pulled out a handful of money and asked the man to buy a roasted pig as a thank-you offering. Then he slipped away.

So he knew for sure that the heroic spirit of the martyrs would forever remain on this sacred land. He prayed to God, asking his brothers to show his descendants the right path.

The next morning, seeing his father not get up early as usual, Han went to his father's bedside and found him lying with his legs stretched out, his hands clasped together over his stomach. Bending down, he could hear his father's chest not rising and falling with breath. Reaching out his hand to his father's face, he felt a cold sensation emanating from his father's half-open eyes and the pale, furrowed brow with its prominent veins. He quickly knelt down, sobbing uncontrollably: "Father! Please rest assured, as long as I am alive, no one will dare disturb the sacred land of our family. And we still have your grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Please trust me and rest in peace."

Looking up, he was surprised to see the old man's forehead relaxed peacefully and his eyelids closed.

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