Time flies so fast! It's already April.
From April 1975 until today – enough time for me to call it "once upon a time" – that "once upon a time," the little girl next door was just a child clinging to her mother, staring blankly at the war, while I, too, was dragged and battered by war from one region to another. And this April, the little girl who "stared blankly at the war" back then is now a successful young mother, while I, an old woman, gaze at life with a vacant stare!
That April, I said goodbye to her without promising to meet again. Years later, missing my hometown, I returned and met her. It felt like just yesterday, but now she's grown up and is fortunate to live a carefree life in peace. She told me, "It's such a pity I only know about war through books, newspapers, and films... I wish I could have faced it firsthand, to share the pain with those who have suffered and lost because of war." Was she being too idealistic and romantic?
Another April has arrived!
This afternoon, a April afternoon, I returned to my old hometown. My girlfriend and I, one old and one young, walked together down the village road. The village has changed so much. Unlike in the old days, when my house and hers were separated by a row of hibiscus bushes. The hibiscus bushes only symbolized the land boundary, not the division of hearts. Houses now have high walls and gates; it seems there's an invisible thread separating the bonds of community. Many people today eat discreetly, become wealthy discreetly, and their hearts are closed off. Only the land remains open because it cannot be hidden, even though it contains… gold.
It's been a long time since we last heard the roar of airplanes tearing through the air, the rumble of cannons echoing through the night, or witnessed the scene of a young mother fainting upon hearing the news of her husband's death in battle... those scenes are gone. That is the joy of peace.
This April, my girlfriend and I finally had the chance to spend a scorching afternoon together in our hometown. The sun was like fire, turning the grass and trees gray, scorching the leaves yellow, blazing down on the tiny town, La Gi, which sounded so Western. Even in our hometown, everything seemed strange—strange roads, strange land, strange houses, strange people. I asked her, "In our hometown, who is still alive and who is gone?" "Few remain, many are lost." The April afternoon faded, the sun less intense, and we stopped at a roadside cafe for coffee and listened to "The Melody of Pride": "...We vow to march forward to liberate the South..." She listened intently and said that it had been so long since she'd heard this song—an unforgettable song from both sides—this side and that side. And she continued, "Brother, dying in war, dying of old age, dying in accidents, dying of disease… what do people know after they die?" My dear, Confucius's disciples once asked him this question, and he replied, "If you want to know whether you still know anything after death, then wait until you die, and you'll find out!" Looking at me, Confucius's answer was so wise, wasn't it?
The past is present in every person, every nation, every country. The past is a mix of joy and sorrow, glory and shame, blood and tears, separation and suffering, death and lamentation. This afternoon, in April, I return to my birthplace after years of wandering in the city since the war ended. In the silent twilight, my beloved and I are silent, listening to the echoes of the past…
“…After thirty years apart, we meet again, and tears of joy well up…” (Xuan Hong).
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