The Tale of Mother Vietnam-Sample 1

THE DAY THE WAR ENDED

(April 30, 1975)

On April 30, 1975,
the war ended.

One half of the country cried.
The other half clapped in victory.

The victors declared the country united,
but many hearts in Saigon
broke on that day
and scattered from rivers to the sea.

The war ended —
but the streets of Saigon were restless.

The last helicopters had already gone.
The embassy gate stood open,

Crowds wandered through abandoned offices
warehouses, and empty homes.

At the gate of the American embassy
people rushes in
to see if anything left behind.

The hands reaching inside
were not foreign soldiers
nor Northern troops.

They were the hands of Saigon itself.

Some called it looting.
Some called it survival.

Perhaps it was something in between.

If the grand design of Hồ Chí Minh
was to liberate the South,
then some of the people of Saigon
took liberation one step further —

they liberated whatever remnants
the departing Americans had left behind.

Whatever could be removed
was taken home.

Some carried things
across their shoulders.

Some tied them
on bicycles.
Some stacked them
onto motorbikes.

Some walked away
holding two electric fans
in their hands.

Others carried
typewriters
and telephones.

What remained
in the American offices
did not remain long.

Some even carried
a big desk alone,
pushing their way
through the crowd.

Bicycles suddenly
became cargo carriers.

For a brief moment
the boulevard outside the embassy gate
looked like a free open-air flee market.

After twenty years of war,
was this the victory trophies
people had waited for?

Young men waved and shouted greetings
as northern columns rolled into the city.

Hands rose in welcome —
the country, they said,
was finally one.

The soldiers looked upward in wonder.

Tall buildings stretched above them
like something from another world
they had only heard about in stories.

One young soldier whispered:

“Comrades…
why are the houses here
taller than the trees in the jungle?”

Store windows glittered with strange treasures.

Pens that needed no ink.
Wristwatches ticking with quiet precision.
Sneakers bright as foreign flags.

Lipsticks, perfumes, high-heeled shoes —
small luxuries of another life.

Some soldiers examined a small metal lighter
an American soldier had once carried.

With a flick of the thumb
a flame leapt out.

“Zippo,” someone read slowly
from the engraved metal.

The little lighter fascinated them.

Nearby another soldier tried chewing gum
for the first time.

He chewed slowly.

“Do we swallow it?” one asked.

“No,” another replied quickly.
“It will stay in your stomach for the rest of your life.”

A few believed him.

A few did not.

Some swallowed it anyway.

Tanks rolled into the city.

Victory was announced to the world.

And somewhere nearby,
a young soldier
swallowed chewing gum
for the first time.

“Never mind,” he said.

While nations change governments,
somewhere a young soldier
is still learning
what to do
with chewing gum.

Some soldiers also discovered
metal cans packed neatly in wooden crates.

American field rations.

C-rations.

They turned the cans over in their hands,
wondering how to open them.

A few children standing nearby
suddenly burst into laughter.

“Let us show you!”
they said.

Small hands quickly pointed
to a tiny tool
many American soldiers used to carry.

A folded piece of steel
smaller than a finger.

With a few small turns
the lid slowly peeled open.

Inside were beans, meat, biscuits,
sometimes fruit in syrup.

A whole meal
hidden in a metal shell.

One soldier held the tiny opener
between his fingers.

“So small,” he said,

“and it opens everything.”