Mother's heartache

(Baonghean)Perhaps, when telling this story, I have not told all that the woman has gone through, not all the hidden things in her heart. But I have always thought that this is not only her story, it is the story of thousands of mothers who carry the pain after the war. And what remains in me forever is the image of the woman sitting silently like a statue in the pale afternoon sun. The smile that just appeared on her lips has given way to a deep gaze. That statue is carved with loss, sacrifice, desire... that cannot be expressed in words.

In the army returning after the unification day that year, there was a skinny man wearing a faded military uniform. His skin was pale gray from malaria, his body still had wounds that had just healed, his bones were still burning with pain from the cold, only his eyes were bright and gentle when he looked at the village girl who came to his house to help him with a handful of leaves that had just been picked from the forest. Starting from that sympathy and compassion, they came together with a simple wedding. The small thatched house was a warm nest woven by the boundless love of the woman, she. She worked hard in the fields, took care of her old mother, and helped him sleep through the long nights of pain from the wounds that had not yet rested. Then the happiness of motherhood came after the waiting. The first child was born in the flickering light of the oil lamp at the commune health station, and the nurse's cry: A son. In the pain of giving birth, she smiled. But then, the silence of those who witnessed the moment the child was born made her vaguely feel that something was wrong. When the child was placed in her arms, her heart tightened. Her son, limp, with an abnormally large head and missing a foot...

From that night, the young mother's lullaby was bitter and choked with tears. The news of her giving birth to a monster gradually spread throughout the village. In this remote hilly area, people still believed in ghosts and in the punishment of God. She understood that comfort could not fill the pitying looks and whispers behind her back. She left, as if running away from the festive crowds. Her thin shoulders seemed to weigh even more. The child was weak, but she was still happy as it grew thanks to her mother's milk, knew how to smile and talk. The most peaceful place in her heart was still when she leaned on her father's shoulder after a long tiring day. They rekindled hope in the second child growing inside her body...

But then, she was stunned once more when she heard her child's weak, unusual cry at birth. The soft little baby lay in her arms, with all its limbs, but curled up as if someone had removed some of its bones. Every night, she sang a lullaby to her child in tears. She questioned herself: What have I done wrong to cause my children to suffer such misfortune? She prayed to heaven and earth, to the gods, hoping that misfortune would spare her family. Every time she took her child to seek treatment and asked questions, she and her husband heard people talking about Agent Orange in the war. At that time, someone who had just returned from the district market told a story about a soldier who had returned and given birth to children who were not fully formed. She went to this house and saw a whole bunch of disabled children rolling around, dirty on the uneven ground. That's right, that evil poison and nothing else, she lived a virtuous life, he sacrificed for this Fatherland... For many nights, in pain, his body burned with memories: The forests that his soldiers' footsteps had passed through. Forests with withered leaves and falling all at once by the misty clouds.



This mother experienced extreme pain when her husband, children and grandchildren were all infected with dioxin.(Photo for illustration purposes only)

The two children, as they grew older, had to endure more and more pain. She looked at her children in pain, as if someone was stabbing her heart, because even at the hospital, she only received sympathetic head shakes. Medicine could not save her already unfortunate children. One by one, they all passed away at the same age, when they had just managed to call out to their mother and father, when they had just learned to complain: I am in so much pain! But no matter what, they still had to hope, still had to cling to it to live. People told stories, there were families that gave birth to 6 or 7 children, and then, luckily, the poison gradually wore off, and they found a healthy child. She and her husband continued to hold on to hope. The third child was born, when the grass on the two small graves had just turned green. She and her husband raised their children, as if counting the days until the child could run and ask questions. It also started with the pain in their children's bodies. The pain made her heart break. She was afraid, afraid of losing her own flesh and blood again. She was afraid of the moment when she would face the most terrible thing in a mother's life. But then, it still came...

This time he collapsed completely. His eyes were getting dim. He never had a deep sleep. She still remembered the feeling of being alone in the small rice field, letting her hands get cut by the rice leaves and looking up to the sky and lamenting: Oh God, why? She went home and knelt down where her children lay. Her tears were gone, but in her heart she sang a mournful lullaby: My children, sleep in peace. I am guilty towards you for not being able to give you a complete life.

The small house was filled with more pain, his sighs and her sobs hidden in the darkness.

In countless dark nights like that, she bitterly heard him turn and sit up. He searched for his tobacco pipe, and in a heart-wrenching cough, his voice seemed lost, but full of determination: "If we have a fourth child and it's still like that, I won't live anymore, my dear. I've made myself and them suffer. Please forgive me!"

When she heard his words, heard his pain, she seemed to hurt even more. She could not bear to see the tears of her husband, who had gone through the battle without a moment of fear. She could not bear to witness his self-torture. And within her, a thought, a determination, formed: I must give birth to a healthy child, must bring him back faith!

She made a decision, until now she still doesn't know if she was right or wrong. The secret she wanted to bury, she wanted no one to know. She quietly went to ask for a child from another healthy, normal man. The early market, the hasty meeting and since then, she has always kept the oath to her conscience to avoid that man for the rest of her life...

The fourth child was born healthy and strong. It lit up joy and happiness in him. But for her, from the moment she heard him cry at birth, happiness was accompanied by endless torment. There were times when she saw him so happy that she didn't dare to look into his eyes for long. Not infrequently at night, hearing him turn over, she was filled with torment. And sometimes, even in her dreams, that silent guilt still haunted her... But, there was a truth greater than all truths in the world, that he was revived from the sound of the child calling for his father. That their small house was warmed up from the sound of children's laughter. In the pain of illness every night, next to her figure was a worried, childish gaze.

Only she, although she had told herself many times to forget, as if by a spell, that the early events were just a dream. But it was difficult. Over 60 years old, nearly 40 years of being a wife and a mother, she had gone through so much pain: seeing her own children born without a complete form, and then at the same age, they left her one by one. And even after giving birth to a healthy child, her heart was still stormy and restless. Not to mention the many deprivations that drained her strength. Not to mention the many suspicious eyes that had once made her afraid.

I suddenly understood that behind those small, thin, and lopsided shoulders, there was still the pain of war, but also the extraordinary strength of many Vietnamese mothers. At this moment, I seemed to hear my grandmother's lullaby. She was lulling her child or her newborn grandchild. Her white hair fluttered in the pale afternoon sunlight. She did not want anyone to know about her, and so, in this article, she is the woman... without a name!

Thuy Vinh