A mother's heartbreak

(Baonghean)Perhaps, in recounting this story, I haven't fully conveyed everything that woman went through, or all the hidden pain in her heart. But I've always thought that this isn't just her story anymore; it's the story of thousands of mothers bearing the pain after the war. And what remains etched in my memory is the image of the woman sitting silently like a statue in the fading afternoon sun. A fleeting smile on her lips quickly gives way to a profound, vacant gaze. That statue was sculpted from loss, sacrifice, and longing... things that cannot be expressed in words.

Among the returning troops after the reunification that year, there was a thin man in a faded uniform. His skin was grayish-blue from bouts of malaria, his body still bearing fresh, newly healed wounds, and a dull ache in his bones whenever the weather changed. Only his eyes shone brightly and gently as he looked at the village girl who came to his house to bring him a handful of freshly picked herbs for a herbal steam bath. It was this shared compassion and empathy that led to their simple wedding. Their small thatched house became a warm home woven from the boundless love of the woman – his wife. She single-handedly tended the fields, cared for her elderly mother, and comforted him through the long, painful nights caused by his wounds. Then, the joy of motherhood finally arrived after much anticipation. Their first child was born in the flickering light of an oil lamp at the village health station, and the nurse exclaimed, "A boy!" In the midst of childbirth, she smiled. But then, the subsequent silence of those witnessing the child's birth gave her a vague feeling that something was amiss. When the child was placed in her arms, her heart sank. Her son, limp, with an unusually large head and missing a foot...

From that night on, the young mother's lullabies were choked with tears. The news of her giving birth to a deformed child spread throughout the village. In this remote hilly region, people still believed in ghosts and divine punishment. She understood that comfort couldn't fill the apprehensive glances and whispered gossip behind her back. She left, as if fleeing from the crowds and festivities. Her thin shoulders seemed to sag even more. The child was weak, but she still found happiness as it grew, nurtured by her milk, learning to smile and talk. The most peaceful place in her heart was still when she leaned on her husband's shoulder after a long, tiring day. They rekindled hope for the second child growing inside her...

But then, another moment of shock came when she heard her newborn child's weak, unusual cries. The tiny baby lay limp in her arms, with all its limbs intact, but contorted as if someone had pulled out some of its bones. Every night, she would sing lullabies to her child amidst tears. She questioned herself: What sin had she committed to cause her children such misfortune? She prayed and begged the heavens and the gods, hoping that misfortune would leave her family alone. During her visits to the doctor and inquired about the effects of Agent Orange from the war, she and her husband heard about it. Just then, someone returning from the district market told her about a case in a neighboring village where a soldier had given birth to children with deformed bodies. She traveled to this house and found a whole brood of disabled children lying on the uneven ground, covered in dirt. Yes, it was that terrible poison, nothing else. She was so virtuous, and he sacrificed himself for this country... For so many nights, in his pain, his body burned with memories: the forests his soldier's footsteps had traversed. Forests with withered leaves falling in unison, swept away by the swirling mists.



This mother has experienced the ultimate pain of having her husband, son, and grandson all exposed to dioxin.(Image is for illustrative purposes only)

The two children, as they grew older, suffered more and more pain. Watching them suffer felt like a knife piercing her heart, for even at the hospital, she only received sympathetic headshakes. Medicine couldn't save her children, who were already burdened with misfortune. One by one, they both died at the same age, just as they were old enough to call out "Mom" and "Dad," just as they could lament, "It hurts so much!" But they still had to hope, they still had to cling to that hope to live. People told stories of families who had six or seven children, and then, by chance, the poison gradually wore off, and they found a healthy child. She and her husband continued to hold onto hope. Their third child was born, just as the grass began to grow green on their small graves. They raised the child, seemingly counting the days until the baby could toddle and ask questions. And again, it all began with the pain in her child's body. The pain broke her heart. She feared, she feared losing another of her own flesh and blood. She dreaded the moment she would face the greatest horror of a mother's life. But then, it still came...

This time, he was completely broken. His eyesight was fading. He couldn't get a single good night's sleep. She still remembered the feeling of being alone in the small rice field, letting her hands get chafed by the rice leaves, and looking up at the blue sky, lamenting: "Oh God, why?" She went home and knelt down where her children lay. Her tears had dried, but in her heart, a mournful lullaby echoed: "My children, sleep peacefully. I have sinned against you by 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.

On countless such dark nights, she listened heartbrokenly to him stirring and sitting up. He would reach for his pipe, and in a fit of raspy coughing, his voice would falter, yet be resolute: "If the fourth child turns out the same way, I won't live anymore. I've caused you and the children so much suffering. Please forgive me!"

Listening to his words, hearing about his pain, she felt as if her own pain had intensified. She couldn't bear to see the tears of her husband, a man who had fought in battles without a moment's fear. She couldn't bear to witness his self-reproach. And within her, a thought formed, a firm resolve: I must give birth to a healthy child, I must restore his faith!

She made a decision, and even now she doesn't know if it was right or wrong. A secret she wanted to keep hidden, something no one would ever know. She quietly went to ask for a child from another healthy, normal man. It was a fleeting meeting at the early morning market, and since then, she has always kept her conscience and vowed to avoid that man for the rest of her life...

Their fourth child was born healthy and adorable. It ignited joy and happiness in him. But for her, from the moment she heard its first cry, happiness was accompanied by an unending torment. There were times when she saw him truly happy, yet she dared not look into his eyes for long. Not infrequently, at night, hearing him toss and turn, she would be overwhelmed with anguish. And sometimes, even in her dreams, that silent guilt would haunt her… But there was a truth greater than any other: he was revived by the sound of the child calling him "father." Their small house became warm again when filled with the cheerful laughter of their child. In the midst of her nightly suffering and illness, beside her was the anxious gaze of the child.

Only she, despite repeatedly telling herself to forget, as if under a spell, that the events of that early life were just a dream, found it difficult. Over 60 years old, nearly 40 years as a wife and mother, she had endured so much pain: watching her children, whom she had given birth to, suffer from physical disabilities, only to see them leave her one by one at the same age. And even after giving birth to a healthy child, her heart was still filled with turmoil. Not to mention the hardships that had drained her strength. Not to mention the skeptical glances that had once filled her with fear.

I suddenly understood that behind those frail, frail shoulders lay the pain of war, but also the extraordinary strength of countless Vietnamese mothers. At this moment, I felt as if I could hear her lullaby. Was she singing to her own child or to her newborn grandchild? Her hair, white in the fading afternoon sunlight, fluttered in the breeze. She didn't want anyone to know about her, and therefore, in this article, she is an unnamed woman!

Thuy Vinh