Tourists visiting the Hue Imperial Citadel on the occasion of April 30, 2026. Photo: Dinh Hoang

It was an afternoon when the early summer heat was already blazing on the grounds of Quoc Hoc High School, where we—children from the countryside far from home—had boarded in the city. From Phu Loc, my father unexpectedly took a late bus to Hue. It was a completely unexpected encounter because back then there were no telephones for him to contact me in advance. Suddenly, he appeared at the door of my boarding room, like a dream. I rubbed my eyes, ran to him, hugged him tightly, and buried my face in his shirt, which smelled faintly of earth, sweat, and the fields. Waiting for my daughter's emotions to calm down, he whispered, "I came to visit you so you can go see the parade tomorrow…" That was my father's first parade.

At 4 a.m., while my roommates were still fast asleep, my father woke me up to go out to the streets to watch the parade. He held my hand and we walked a long distance, from Quoc Hoc High School, through the peaceful trees on Le Loi Street, across Truong Tien Bridge, and strolling along Tran Hung Dao Street. It was a cool, crisp morning on the wide streets adorned with red and yellow flags. My father and I blended into the crowd, joyful in our traditional ao dai dresses and catching glimpses of the green uniforms of the veterans.

Finally, my father chose a spot at the intersection of Tran Hung Dao Street and the road leading to Thuong Tu to stop. It wasn't yet dawn, but the streets were already packed with people. Around me, mothers, sisters, and children eagerly awaited the moment the imposing tanks would pass by. The footsteps of the army echoed through the streets of Hue. As the fighter planes roared across the sky, my father's hand, which had been holding mine, tightened. I whispered in my ear, "Peace has come…"

During his youth, my father served as a liaison for the revolution in his hometown. Those were the days he braved danger to deliver messages and contribute to the revolution. While transporting combat orders from the war zone to the base, he was ambushed. A bullet from the enemy wounded him severely. Rescued by his comrades, he was transferred to a base for treatment and then sent to the North for regrouping. His departure was so sudden that he didn't have time to send a single word to my mother. My grandmother only had him as her only child. The war separated them in 1953.

In the summer of 1976, a year after the country's reunification, my parents brought the whole family, including my seven sisters and me, to Hue, starting a new day, a new life in our homeland. My father rebuilt the house on the foundation of my grandmother's house, which had been destroyed after the war. The spacious garden was once again green with trellises of pumpkins and gourds… But my grandmother didn't live to see my father until peace came.

Later in life, I understood why, 41 years ago, my father traveled from Phu Loc to Hue so that I—an 8th-grade girl—could watch the military parade. Like so many soldiers who had endured the hardships and suffering of war, my father had waited so long for peace to come. And with that parade, perhaps, he wanted to remind us, the generation fortunate enough to grow up in peace, to remember and cherish our family and homeland even more; to appreciate every moment of peace that was bought with so many separations and waiting...

Kim Oanh

Source: https://huengaynay.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/lan-dau-xem-duyet-binh-165172.html